


Liberate Me

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, Explicit Language, M/M, Out of Character, Romance, Sexual Content, Slash, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-30
Updated: 2009-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-30 12:13:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 89,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: [HPLV slash]AU summer before fifth. Severitus. The summer is the usual for everyone...until Severus finds Harry on his bedroom floor, beaten and not breathing. Dumble's been keeping secrets...and they're about to be found out.Vamp,Dark Harry.





	1. To Die

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Sirius Black, Severus Snape, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling's novels. In addition, I do not intend this story as any form of slander or make any profit from it.

Note: This story is...er...I think three years old. I attempted to fix it up as best as I could, though if you notice, it lacks my current writing style. Don't let this discourage you; it's a very good story, one I intend to finish. I'm...kinda hoping it will tide you over until Lupus Parvulus, Adoptif Fils and My Lord Potter update. Check my bio for further information.

Warnings: Child abuse, AU, slash (duuuhhhh), language, violence, more language, Umbridge bashing, Dursley bashing… that’s all.

Chapter One

“And you’ll stay in there, boy, if you know what’s good for you!” snarled a drunk Vernon Dursley as he shoved his small nephew into the cupboard under the stairs. No remorse flowed through him, though he knew that the child he had just held in his hands was suffering from his actions. The little freak deserved it; he had caused Drillings’ business to slow down, which was causing workers to be laid off and pays to be cut. He deserved every thing he got.

Inside the small cupboard, a trembling Harry Potter was slowly inching towards a small sheet on the floor, which served as a bed for the fifteen-year-old. Blood ran freely from his torn up back, the welts proving they had come from the metal part of a belt. Littering his pale face were dozens of bruises, and written across his ghost-white chest, consisting of the pink color that was common amongst scars, the word 'Murderer' shown clearly enoughfor the world to see.

Harry let out an exhausted sigh when he finally reached his makeshift bed, and collapsed on it. Pain was nothing new to him, he was used to Vernon’s occasional brutal beatings. Not that they had ever been this bad… but it was nothing compared to the curses he had bared in his duel with Voldemort.

Harry cringed, mentally cursing himself for bringing up the events of June. He had spent the last four weeks attempting to block out the images of Cedric’s death, Voldemort’s resurrection, seeing his parents come out of the man’s wand…

‘Damn it all, Potter, think of something else!’ he screamed in his mind, throwing his arms up in frustration. An instant wave of pain flowed through him, and he held back a cry. ‘There, think about that.' Tears welled up in his emerald green eyes as more spasms wracked his body. He clenched his teeth and let out a noiseless hiss.

‘Just sleep…just try to sleep…it’ll be over soon…just sleep…’

 

.T.

“I’m telling you something is wrong with him, Albus! Those wards of yours must have failed or something. What if there is some Death Eater in his house right now, torturing him endlessly until he is weak enough for Voldemort to use him? Just send someone to check up on him!” Sirius Black leaned over the table to stare into the eyes of his old headmaster. His voice was pleading and desperate, face taught with worry.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore studied the man who used to be his student carefully. Two years had changed the escaped convict greatly. His once long black hair was now shoulder length, currently tied back so that the features of his smooth face could be seen clearly. His sharp blue eyes, once haunted with grief and anger, were now alive and sparkling with joy. Joy that was, at the moment, replaced with concern for his godson.

Albus sighed. He knew where Sirius was coming from with this. How could he not? One of the greatest dark wizards the world had ever seen was back, and if his top priority was to hunt down and kill one of the few people left who meant something to you, you would be just as worried for that person’s safety as Sirius was for Harry Potter’s.

“Sirius, the wards I have placed around Privet Drive will not let a Death Eater who wishes to cause the boy harm through. I can guarantee you that Harry is fine at the Dursleys. There is no need for any pointless concern,” soothed the headmaster, trying to reassure the agitated man. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to meet Charlie Weasley in Romania. Apparently, there are a few wizards and witches who are interested in joining the Order.” Albus rose to leave, but stopped. He laid a comforting hand on the younger man’s shoulder, but Sirius shrugged it off angrily.

“He hasn’t written in three days, Albus, three days! How do we even know he is there anymore, or if he’s alright! How. Do. We. Know?” Sirius was shouting now, taking the old wizard by surprise. Albus raised an eyebrow.

“Sirius, please, calm down, you’re blowing this completely out of proportion-,” the door flew open, barely missing the headmaster’s crooked nose.

“Headmaster! Is every thing alright? I heard shouting, is there an ar - oh...Black. I should have known. Still angry because you can’t leave your lovely childhood home?” sneered a greasy-haired man in billowing robes. Sirius growled at him in response. Severus Snape had never been one of his favorite people.

“Shut up, Snivellus. At least I don’t have to kiss the robes of some ugly, snakey bastard and pretend to enjoy it.” Severus’ sneer grew.

“Jealous, Black?”

“Of what, exactly, Snivelly? I don’t want to spend my time being Voldemort’s fuck toy-,”

“Of my ability to help the Order instead of staying here being of no assistance, like you are. Like you’ve always been. You failed to protect Potter and Lily, just like you failed to protect their son, your godson, from the Dark Lord,” Severus cut him off, effectively ignoring the last comment made about him. Sirius, however, wasn’t as gifted in the art of brushing things away. With a snarl and a growl that would scare Godric Gryffindor himself, he threw himself at the Hogwarts Potion’s Master, having every intention to kill the man where he stood.

“THAT.IS.ENOUGH!”A stern voice bellowed loudly. Sirius froze in mid launch, while Severus turned sheepishly towards the headmaster. The old school rivals had forgotten he was there, andthe ancient wizardlooked positively livid.

“That is quite enough out of the two of you. We haven’t the time for your petty bickering; we have a war to prepare for! So I strongly suggest you put aside your differences, or you will find yourselves rooming together for the next month!” Both men paled and instantly moved away from one another.

Sensing he had ended the verbal confrontation between the two, Albus turned towards Sirius, who was attempting to look ashamed of himself, trying to hide the emotion behind his eyes. He once again rested a hand on the ex-convict’s shoulder, and this time, Sirius did not object.

“I assure you that Harry is fine where he is. Give him a few more days to write to you; he’s probably just occupied at the moment. You needn’t worry.” Giving the shoulder a light squeeze, he gave Severus a pointed look, and left.

Snape attempted to sneer at his old schoolmate, but seeing him in such a vulnerable state, found that he could not. Shooting the crestfallen figure a puzzled look, the Potion’s Professor followed his mentor.

After knowing for sure that both of the men were gone, Sirius looked through the small window to his left, tears in his eyes. What Snape had said was true. He had failed James and Lily, had failed to ease Remus’ transformations for twelve years.

And now he was failing Harry, more so then he already had.

He searched the sky, looking hopefully for the familiar sight of the snowy owl known as Hedwig, carrying a letter from his godson demanding to know just what was going on with Voldemort. He’d even settle for a letter saying how angry Harry was at him, how much he despised him for not giving him any helpful information.

But there was nothing. Not even a cloud flawed the pale blue sky.

Despite what Dumbledore had said about Harry being safe, despite the fact that he knew it was damn near impossible for a Death Eater to get their hands on him, the feeling that something was off would not leave him.

“Siri, LUNCH!” The voice of Remus Lupin could be heard from the kitchen, closely followed by shrills from his mother’s portrait and a colorful curse.

Turning and plastering a fake smile on his face, Sirius exited the room, a single solemn vow running through his mind.

‘If anything happens to Harry, I’ll personally kill everyone who ever caused him any harm myself.’

.T.

Harry slowly filled up the hole in the ground of the backyard, tears silently dripping down his face as he did so. He was gentle as he patted down the dirt over the hole, not wanting to harm what was under it, though he knew it would not feel anything.

He had buried Hedwig today. Three weeks of going without food or water had been too much for her, as it would be for anyone. He had been with her during her final moment, stroking her snowy white feathers and telling her it as all right to go, telling her she would be in a better place, and that he loved her. She had given him a feeble hoot in response, gave his finger a weak affection nip, taken her last breath, a left him forever.

His second friend, his confidant, his familiar, his shadow, was dead.

More tears fell from his eyes as he laid a single white lily he had taken from Aunt Petunia’s garden on top of the little grave. He was glad she was gone, glad that at least she had been able to get away from this hell-hole, glad that she no longer had to put up with Vernon’s shit. But he was also sad, for now he was alone. Hedwig had been the only living being in the whole house that hadn’t flinched at the sight of him. Indeed, the only one who ever seemed happy to see him. The only one who didn’t scream at him and hit him, though that could have been because she was physically incapable of such acts. She had always seemed fond of him, though.

Harry placed a hand lightly on the grave, tears still flowing.

“I’m so sorry, my friend. I’m sorry you had to suffer like you did. At least now you’ll be in a better place. If you would, say hi to my parents for me,” he choked, unable to go on. Putting two fingers to his lips, he touched them to the lily, and stood, head bowed.

“I’m sorry I killed you, Hedwig. I hope you can forgive me. I love you.”

Harry turned towards the house, and had made to the back door when he heard it. The deep, unmistakable rumble of Uncle Vernon’s car coming down the road. A slight tremor went through him, but he stopped it. He had killed Hedwig, had killed Cedric, and therefore deserved whatever was coming to him. Taking in a deep breath, he opened the door.

.T.

Aunt Petunia met him, a dark look on her horse-like face. She raised the pot that was in her hand, and swung it at him.

CRACK!

Harry didn’t even flinch as he felt his jaw slide out of place; didn’t even spit out the blood that was coming into his mouth. He just stared blankly at Petunia as she burst out crying.

“How could you? How dare you! After all we have done for you, and this is how you repay us? By making Vernon lose his job? You ungrateful bastard! You should have died with your parents! Just wait until Vernon gets here - ah, there he is now! Oh, you’re going to get it! You’re going to get what has been coming to you for years!” Without another word, she pulled him into the living room, where a very murderous, very fat Vernon Dursley was waiting. The second Petunia moved out of the way, Vernon launched forward and grabbed Harry but the collar of his overly large shirt.

SLAM!

Harry saw stars as he sunk to the ground. The wall was a bit harder than he remembered it being. He was positive it had at least given him a minor concussion. He spat the blood out of his mouth, as it was now coming too fast for him to swallow. Instantly, but too late, he knew this was the wrong thing to do.

“My carpet! My beautiful carpet! Look what you’ve done to it! You’ve ruined it!” Shrieked Aunt Petunia in horror. Harry’s eyes went wide, and he looked fearfully at the Dursleys. Vernon’s face had gone strangely lax, and when he spoke, his voice was oddly calm. He pointed at Harry.

“You, go wait in the bedroom. I’ll be there in a minute.” When Harry didn’t move, a bit of Vernon’s old temper flared up.

“NOW!” he roared. Not wanting to cause the man anymore anger, Harry blindly made his way up the stairs and to the smallest bedroom, which had once been his, and fell to the floor.

After what seemed like hours, though was only a few minutes, he heard Vernon enter the room. He was instantly flipped over onto his back so that he was facing the large man.

“I should have done this a long time ago, when you caused that freak to harm Dudley. Oh, yes, I should have done this a long, long time ago.” He pulled out his hand, and Harry’s eyes widened a little more. A large kitchen knife was gleaming back at him.

“It’s time to die, Harry.”

He honestly tried very hard not to, but in the end, a scream erupted from his lips as the long, sleek knife plunged into his stomach and twisted around.

Images of his parents flashed though his mind. Them smiling in their pictures, their echo’s telling him to hold on. Images of Cedric dancing with Cho, him telling Harry to take the cup, his body falling lifelessly to the ground after being hit with the dreaded Killing Curse.

As the knife plunged into his side, his thoughts turned to the grave in the backyard. The grave that held his true friend, who had died because she had been with him.

As Uncle Vernon’s fists pounded his torso, he felt himself slipping into oblivion. His eyes glazed over, and a slight smile formed on his face.

‘I’m coming Hedwig, Dad, Mum, Cedric. Hold on, I’m coming.’

And finally, his breathing stopped.

.T.

He’d had enough. Screw Dumbledore’s assurances, screw the wards, screw the evidence that Voldemort was elsewhere. Something was wrong with his godson, something was wrong with Harry Potter. He needed help. Something was wrong, something was desperately wrong.

Remus’ transformations had just ended, and the werewolf was now resting peacefully on the bed in the master bedroom. Watching his friend go through all that pain had stuck something inside of him, something that had to do with Harry.

Dumbledore was still in Romania. He couldn’t help, and Sirius doubted heavily that he would anyways. Arthur was at work, Moody and Tonks on a mission. That left only one option.

Without knocking, he pushed open the thick oak doors to Severus Snape’s chambers. Snape glared at him, obviously annoyed, but Sirius didn’t care. Instead, he kneeled down in front of the man he hated, and looked into his onyx eyes, which were wide with surprise.

“Severus, I need a favor.”

.T.

Hermione Granger stared at the book in front of her, blinking hard in a vain attempt to rid her eyes and herself of fatigue. She could picture Ron and Harry laughing at her for studying so late, but the text upon which her eyes lay was simply too intriguing to be left unread until morning. She shook her head hard, causing her brunette curls to whip her face, and forced her eyes to focus on the heading of the next chapter.

The Veil: Does the Ministry Communicate with the Dead?

TBC


	2. To Live

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Sirius Black, Severus Snape, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling's novels. In addition, I do not intend this story as any form of slander or make any profit from it. 

To All My Reviewers: Thank you so much for taking the time review! I enjoy them. 

Warnings: AU, slash, child abuse, language, violence, and a very dangerous writer who has been given a keyboard. 

Chapter Two 

When Vernon Dursley had picked up the knife from his wife's set, he had only planned on using it to scare the boy a bit. Flash it in his face, threaten him, take a fake stab, maybe, stopping it an inch or so from him. He had not intended on killing his nephew (though Lord knew it had been in many a dream of his), but when he had seen the teenager laying on the floor, bleeding all over the floor of the room they had so kindly given him, not looking even slightly remorseful when he had flipped him over, the obese man had lost it. What was the point in keeping the vermin alive, anyways? What good did he serve? What did he bring upon himself, wife, and son but embarrassment and danger? And who would miss him?

So he had stuck the knife into him. He had meant for the first blow to be fatal, but the look of shock, and then pain that had crossed the boy's face when the cool metal had slipped through the skin of his abdomen had awoken something in Vernon; a longing, a yearning to cause pain. And so he had withdrawn the butcher knife, and, staring into the tear-filled emerald eyes, had shoved it into the soft flesh of his side, reveling in the scream that had erupted.

Now, as he stood in the center of his nephew's room, kneeling over the raven-haired boy's unmoving, unbreathing body, a calm sense of completeness that had not felt in nearly thirteen years fell over him. The bane of his existence was gone. His family could walk free again, free of talk, of stares, of embarrassing, pressing questions that they could never answer. The boy was dead. The freaks would not, if past behavior were any sign, come and check up on him and discover such a detail. And, if they did, Vernon was sure he could work his way around it. After all, he done his nephew a favor the many orphans would kill for. He had reunited the brat with his parents. He had killed two birds with one stone...

Slowly, Vernon rose to his feet, knife still clutched in his hand. He stared at the figure for a second, observing, before spitting directly onto the boy's forehead, giving a satisfied smirk, and exiting through the doorway.

.T. 

It was quiet...and peaceful. There was a silence that was not deafening, and at the same time a noise that could not be heard. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before. It was not frightening...not exactly. It was more...welcoming, warm. All around him, he could feel immense happiness, though he knew without doubt (though his eyes were not open to justify), that he was alone. It was...wonderful, using the only word that could summarize it yet that could do it no justice.

And he wanted to stay.

Very slowly, as though afraid it would disappear at the slightest sudden move, Harry's eyes opened, and he gazed around himself in wonder. He was standing on dark green grass, looking over a vast area that reminded him very much of Hogwarts, with several hills and a wide, beautifully gleaming lake. There was not a home in sight, nor a creature to catch his attention, but that did not deter Harry in the slightest. It was as though he had stepped into Heaven, the one place that he never thought he would get into, and had been granted a small section just for himself. He did not know the place, and was equally clueless as to how he had gotten there to begin with, and though this would have greatly disturbed him in other times, it brought not a single feeling to him now.

"Fancy place ya got here, lad." Harry whirled around at the voice, eyes widening at the sight before him. For there stood a man, just a little taller than Peeves, with pale, nearly fluorescent skin and wide, almost abnormally-so brown eyes. He was clothed in a brown outfit, similar to what Muggle leprechauns wore, with a small, twisted wooden cane in his left hand. He was smiling at Harry, showing the gaps where he had missing teeth, and raised his cane to wave about the area. "Never seen one quite like this before. You've got some imagination. Pity, pity."

"Excuse me," said Harry, not being to help but feel a tad incredulous at the stranger's words. "But, who are you? What are you doing here?"

"Who am I?" Demanded the squashy man in an indignant tone. "What am I doing here? Lad," he moved the cane to point at Harry. "You may have created this place, but I, Nicholas the Keeper," he gave a slight bow. "Have a given right to be here." Harry took a step back as the small man advanced. He certainly had not meant any offence. This place was foreign to him (odd, that, as he had supposedly created it); he had hoped to discover exactly where 'here' was. But as the man continued to approach him, staff pointed in a threatening manor, the usually brave Gryffindor couldn't help but think it to be a poor choice on his part.

"Now," said the tiny man, more to himself than to Harry. "Whom do you belong to? Rather troublesome...maybe ya weren't meant to end up here. Perhaps I should send ya there instead." Harry's pulse quickened, though he didn't know why. There?

"Are you a Death Eater?" He demanded suddenly, slightly annoyed that he hadn't thought of it before. However, the other's face scrunched up in an expression of confusion.

"A what?" He drew closer, cane nearing Harry's chest. "Never mind, never mind. I'll just send ya there. They'll straighten ya out." He lifted his staff, and the boy's eyes closed tightly fear, body tensing in anticipation. "Annon Dec-."

"Nick!" The little man fell silent at the sudden shout of his name, and though his eyes had not opened, Harry knew he had turned. "Let him be, he's my charge." Harry relaxed slightly, the somewhat familiar voice soothing with its words. 'Saved by the shout,' he thought dryly.

"Well, yer late," grumbled Nick, sounding sullen. "I was just about to send him-."

"I know what you were doing, Nick," growled his savior, tone cold. "Go on and find some other abandoned soul. I have work to do." Harry's emerald eyes opened slowly, to see Nicholas turned slightly towards a dark cloaked figure, cane resting on the ground, a mocking sneer on his face.

"This, er, personal for ya then?" Inquired the squashy man, tone filled with delight.

"Get out of here, Nicholas!" The figure moved forward, raising his arm as though to attack, causing both Harry and Nick to take a few steps back. With a roll of his brown eyes, Nick lifted his cane, gave it a small wave, and disappeared as though having draped an Invisibility Cloak over himself. The figure sighed.

"Finally. Good for nothing poltergeist." The figure, obviously a man, let his arm drop, and his shoulders slump, before turning slowly towards the other boy. Harry felt a chill run up his spine when he realized the eyes had rested on him, stepping back once more. The man's head jerked up, as though surprised at the reaction, and took a step back himself.

"You don't need to be scared of me, Harry," he said, voice softening in an effort to sooth. Harry, however, would not comply, regarding this new stranger wearily.

"Who are you?" His tone was slightly timid, as the last time he had asked the question, it had nearly gotten him attacked. The man, however, did not seem offended, even giving a morbidly amused chuckle.

"Oh, you know me, believe me," he said lightly. "But, before I tell you," his tone turned back to being serious. "I need you to do something for me. Can you do that, Harry?" The Gryffindor was slightly affronted at being addressed like a child, and took a confident step forward, though his legs shook slightly. Though he could not see it, he knew the man was smiling. "Good. Now, what are you doing here, Harry?" He was taken aback by the question, and his head cocked slightly in confusion. "Think," the man encouraged, voice sounding somewhat choked. "Why are you here? What happened? Think." And Harry did.

'It's time to die, Harry.' 

Instant flashes began to shoot through Harry's mind without mercy. There were images of the chores, Hedwig, growing smaller and frailer with each passing day. The cupboard, the scraps he had been given during his first week, Vernon, Vernon's belt, the beatings. He could practically feel the pain that was no longer there at the images of the lashes... the hunger from the lack of food. More flashes came; burying Hedwig, Vernon coming home, the beating, the knife, the feel of it as it plunged into his stomach...and then into his side.

His hand flew to his abdomen at the memory, eyes widening as he felt the tears in his shirt. He felt faint at the sight of the crimson stain that adorned the checkered fabric. Dear Merlin, he was-.

"Dead." He stumbled back a step as realization hit. "I'm dead." He continued to stare at the blood, forgetting about where he was, and the man that was with him. Dead...he was dead. Ron, Hermione, and the Weasleys...he would never see them again. And Voldemort...he hadn't killed him. He had left them...

"Harry." The man grabbed his hand, drawing it towards himself. "Look at me, Harry." Slowly, very, very slowly, his eyes lifted, and with equal slowness, the man reached up to his hood, pulling it down, and revealing his face. Harry's eyes widened with shock, and he stepped away, pulling his arm free sharply.

"Cedric." 

.T. 

The streets were beginning to get dark as the sun set, and yet he could still make out the disgusting lack of uniqueness that every house thus far possessed. He sneered at the pure Muggleness of the area. He was Severus Septimus Snape, Hogwarts Potions Master, Head of Slytherin House, and an acclaimed spy by both sides of a nearing war.

He did not do Muggle.

And yet, here he was, in a completely Muggle town, walking down a completely Muggle street, wearing completely Muggle clothes, with every intention of going to a completely Muggle house to check on a not-so-Muggle brat.

Perhaps all those years of teaching under Dumbledore's roof had finally taken their toll on the raven-haired man.

The entire time here, Severus had tried to think up a million reasons as to why it was exactly he was going to the house of Harry Potter. He entertained the thought that it was because of Sirius Black on his knees before him, begging him, but that had never stuck. Then he tried making himself believe that if he were to find the boy in some kind of...sticky situation (though he was at a loss as to how he could get into one), and save him, that it would earn him Albus' undying respect. That had not worked either, not only because Dumbledore did not want Potter messed with in the first place, but also because, though he felt a sense of duty to the man, he honestly did not care that much about Albus' feelings.

As it was, Severus knew that the true reason he was going to Potter's house, was the same reason that he had looked after and saved the insufferable boy for the past four years.

Because of James Potter.

Oh, how the name itself brought rage to Severus' veins; made him want to badly hurt something. The thought of the younger man's warm brown eyes, twinkling with mirth and hidden regret as he would publicly humiliate him. Of his flushed skin, of his smirking, rosy lips. The memories of their mutually enjoyed, yet very private conversations, their first, extremely timid, extremely brief kiss, their times together...

Severus shook his head roughly. He had vowed to never think of their time together. James had chosen the little Ravenclaw Mudblood, had married her, and had shared a child with her. As far as Severus was concerned, their love had died the moment James had looked at Lily Evans.

And yet, again, here he was, making his way towards the house where that child lived, because he still felt bound to a man who had been dead for nearly fourteen years.

Severus sent his infamous glare towards a small poodle as the little dog raced through the yard, barking a snarling at him, and gave it a small smile. Instantly, the creature stopped in its tracks, its tail going down between its legs, whimpering as it turned back towards its house. Severus felt a small pang of satisfaction as he continued, number four of Privet Drive coming into sight. Muggle animals were just far too easy.

As he approached the pathway that led up to number four, his scowl turned from intimidating to annoyed. It looked just like every other house on the street, though its curtains were drawn open, allowing Severus to view the inside. Sitting on a couch was a very large blonde-haired boy, who was shoveling spoonfuls of food into his mouth without giving himself time to chew the previous bite, staring unblinking at a television set. Hovering beside him was an extremely tall, extremely thin horse-like woman, who held a platter of more foods in her hands, as though waiting for the boy to grab more. Apparently, this was the case, as that was exactly what happened. Lip curling in disgust, Severus made to approach the porch, when a shadow appeared on the wall of the stairway. Waiting curiously, he watched as the shadow became an obese man, who seemed to be a somewhat shocked daze. He brought something up to his chest, which Severus realized with a start was a knife, and wiped it blankly on his white shirt, leaving a trail of dried crimson in its wake. He ran cold.

Blood.

His mind flew into overdrive. There were at least a dozen rumors circulating within Slytherin House alone of Potter's supposed mistreatment by his relatives. And now the boy was nowhere to be seen. The man with the knife - his uncle, obviously -...why would he have it? There was no viable explanation. Something was horribly wrong.

As he cautiously neared the porch, the scent of blood became overwhelmingly strong. Familiar blood...a Potter's blood. His own ran ice cold at the thought, and without a moments hesitation, he bounded onto the wooden platform and placed a pale hand upon the doorknob.

.T. 

"I don't understand." Harry's voice was soft and child-like as he spoke, emerald eyes turning to stare at the boy he had once known...or knew... death seemed to be a rather complicated thing. "If I'm dead, why aren't I...you know." He threw his hand up in the air as a point, not knowing how to describe the location, but knowing that Cedric would understand it. How odd it was to speak with someone whom he had seen die not a month ago; to see him looking alive and healthy when he was anything but. Cedric's face was flushed with the life he no longer possessed, and he took in breaths that no longer sustained him. It was...eerie.

The brunette's head cocked to the side from his position next to Harry on the ground, expression a mix between sympathy and understanding.

"Because you're not meant to be there just yet, Harry," said the former Hufflepuff softly. He reached out a hand to rest on the other boy's shoulder, but Harry, more from reflex than anything, jerked away sharply with a horrid flinch. Cedric gave him a saddened look, withdrawing his hand instantly, but continued on with what he was saying, knowing without being told that it was not exactly something Harry wanted to discuss. "This is Heros Limbes... Heros Limbo. Dumbledore's been here quite a bit, from what I've heard. The Dark Lord, too." Harry frowned.

"But, why? Why not-."

"Send you to Heaven?" Finished Cedric with a dry smile. "Merlin knows you deserve it, Harry...but it isn't your time to leave just yet."

Harry nodded slowly, not being able to help but feel slightly disappointed at the revelation. He had hoped that he would finally be able to spend some time with his parents, with Cedric, and perhaps see Hedwig. But this was understandable. "I haven't defeated Voldemort yet." Cedric said nothing on his words, allowing Harry to believe it true, causing the raven-haired boy to sigh and give a twisted smile. "My only reason for living." He gave a sardonic chuckle, shaking his head. "When am I leaving, then?" He inquired after a moment, tone once again its frail soft.

"The Father will Awaken the Son," responded Cedric in a drawing tone. At Harry's clueless look, he elaborated. "That's the 'prophecy' that was said to go with the young man who 'made a heaven out of limbo.' The Seer," here, Cedric's cool eyes gazed around Harry's conjured scenery. "Always considered Scotland to be the next best thing to Heaven." Harry, too, gazed around, examining his scene with awe.

"So...so then... my father?" Cedric sent him a small smile.

"Yes, Harry. Your father."

.T. 

Now, Petunia Evans-Dursley was a very proud woman. She felt pride for herself, pride for her husband, pride for her son, pride for the praises she got on the housework. There was only one thing that Petunia held above herself in terms of pride, and that was, of course, her normalcy. People practically worshipped her for it. Many would stop by at all times during the day to simply come a chat with her about frivolous things, or examine and speak of her house, an experience she reveled in greatly.

So when a sharp rap sounded at her door at eight o'clock on the nose, the horse-like woman did not find it in the least bit strange (and as such, neither did her husband or son), and indeed, placed the tray full of food beside the obese Dudley, dusted her hands onto her apron, and made her way towards the front door, hissing at the two males to turn the telly down so as not to inconvenience their guest.

Petunia had expected to see perhaps Mrs. Janette Evergreen from number seven, or Mrs. Annie Cromwell from number one, already imagining the hours that they would sit together and talk. With a large, utterly fake smile, she opened the door.

And screamed.

Of all the things she had expected to see, it was not a man dressed in outdated clothing, glaring at her with glittering obsidian eyes, with a wand raised to her throat before she had a chance to close the door. She took an involuntary step backwards.

"Where," said the dark-haired, his tone drawing as he sneered at her in disgust. "Is Harry Potter?"

Petunia froze, swearing that her heart stopped right where she stood.

"I - I beg your pardon?" She replied in mock confusion. "There is no one h- here by that name." The man's sneer grew, and Petunia's eyes widened at the sight of something gleaming in his mouth. He pressed his wand to her throat, glancing both directions.

"Get inside," he commanded harshly, giving the wand a small, pointed jab. Petunia backed up quickly, practically running backwards to the living room as the stranger shut the door behind them.

"Who is it, Pet?" Called Vernon, not looking up from the telly, thus not seeing the expression on his wife's face. When there was no reply, he looked up, dropping the biscuit that had been on its way to his mouth at the sight of a man holding...a wand...to her neck.

"Where," growled the man once more. "Is Harry Potter?"

.T. 

He hated Muggles.

It had been one of his main reasons for joining the Dark Lord years and years back. The promise of no more of the troublesome creatures had been much too tempting for the newly graduated wizard. Though it had been quite some time since he had worked fully in the man's service, staring at the three before him now reminded him quite well why it was he did not like these...animals. They were absolutely disgusting, and totally barbaric.

Potter's scent engulfed the tiny house, though there was no sign anywhere that the boy had lived there at all.

"There is no Harry P- Potter here, sir," stumbled the incredibly large man, face turning an interesting shade of purple. "Leave my house at once." Severus sneered at the man, allowing him a glimpse of his mouth, daring him to continue. The uncle quickly shut up. With a growl of annoyance, the Potions Master shoved the woman whom he held so roughly, to the side, ignoring her grunt of pain as she slammed into the side of the couch upon which her stunned son was seated. He strode forward quickly, grasping the other man's blood-smeared shirt.

"This is his," growled Severus, fingering the crimson stain in point. His obsidian eyes glittered murderously, locking with the large one's fear-filled beady brown ones. "Now, we can do this the simple way, where you just tell me where he is, or we can go about it the more...complex, way." He gave the man what he was sure was his most mischievous smirk, giving his wand a small wave to remind the uncle that he still had it. The large one's face turned bright red, but his knees shook noticeably, and after a second of deliberation, slowly lifted his arm upwards.

"Up- upstairs," he cocked softly. "Last door on the right." Severus gave him an overly sweet smile.

"Thank you," he said in mock-sincerity, turning towards the staircase. "Oh, and I would not try to leave, if I were you. Nasty spells you can put on doors these days, aren't there?" All three Dursleys froze in their positions as Severus continued towards the stairs, taking two at a time until he reached the top.

The scent of blood slammed into him like a hammer to a nail, and he fell against the wall, using both it and the banister to hold him upright. Squinting, he peered down the hallway, eyes instantly widening at the sight that greeted him.

Locks. 

Padlocks. 

Padlocks on a child's door...from the outside...keeping him trapped. That was where the smell was coming from. What kind of monsters were these Muggles? 

Slowly, inching his way along the wall, head spinning as he neared the door, Severus reached his wand out for the locks, stumbling forward and grasping the doorknob so that he could get close enough.

"Alohomora," he whispered. "Alohomora...Alohomora...Alohomora...Alohomora." He gave a heavy sigh as the last lock clicked open, leaning heavily against the door to push it open.

Wam! 

The blood overpowered his nostrils, flooded his senses, and awoke within him a power that he had not felt in several years. His sight instantly sharpened, his sense slightly dulling, allowing him the focus he needed to spot his target. And he saw him.

The body of Harry Potter lay on the ground, unmoving, glowing in the bask of the moonlight. There was no sign of life; no movement of the chest to signify breathing, no sound of beating to signify a pulse. For some reason, the sight tore at Severus in a way he had never been torn at before, and with an animalistic cry, he stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside the frail body, reaching out to grasp his student's shoulders, giving them a small shake.

"Potter...Potter...Don't do this, Potter." The Gryffindor gave no acknowledgement to having heard him, resulting in Severus drawing the boy further into his arms. "Potter...Potter...Harry." The boy's lips were turning blue...or had they already been blue? He was...James' son was... Potter was...

Severus would never know what drove him to do it, even years later when questioned about it. Perhaps it had been because he could not bear to have the son of his former lover dead. Perhaps it was because some part of him was actually fond of the boy. It could have even been because he had sensed something was different about the boy...that they shared something in common. Whatever the reason was, though, Severus very slowly eased his left arm up from underneath the boy's slight form, bringing it to his lips. He opened his mouth slightly, the moonlight beaming off of the two sharp fangs within his mouth, and, with a small flinch, slashed his wrist open, licking the pouring blood from his lips, and brought it down to the Boy Who Lived's mouth, clenching his muscle to make it drip in.

"Drink," he encouraged. "For the love of Merlin, Potter...Harry, drink."

.T. 

"Potter...Potter...Don't do this, Potter." Harry's head shot skyward at the sound of his name, his conversation with Cedric falling short. He knew that voice... but from where... it was so familiar.

"Dear Merlin." Harry's head turned sharply towards the older boy at the sound of his gasp, giving him an odd look as he noted Cedric's staring.

"What?" He asked, puzzled.

"Look at yourself, Harry. I'll be damned." The Gryffindor complied, albeit confused, mouth falling open as he took in his brightly glowing body. A gold hue covered every inch of him, enveloping him as a sort of security blanket.

"What the bloody hell is going on?" He demanded with a shriek, jumping up in panic. Cedric followed suit, still very much in awe.

"Potter...Potter...Harry." There was the voice again. Harry paled drastically as he connected it to a face.

"Professor Snape."

"Not James after all... it was bloody true." Cedric continued to babble as Harry grew more and more concerned. Quickly, he grasped his friend's hand, effectively drawing Cedric's attention to himself.

"What's going on?" Demanded Harry softly. "You said it would be my father!" Cedric gave the glowing boy a sad, soft smile, and, before he had a chance to tense and protest, drew him into his arms in a comforting hug.

"Listen to me, Harry," he said quietly, gripping him tightly. "Lots of things are going to change when you get back. You must remember that not everything is as it seems. Things have double meanings." Harry frowned into Cedric's robes, listening. "Things are going to be difficult for a very long time, Harry. But I believe that you can handle it."

"What...what if I can't?" Cedric's smile grew, and he pulled away slightly, basking Harry with warm eyes.

"I have faith in you," he replied, as though that were the only thing that mattered. Harry smiled despite himself.

"Drink...For the love of Merlin, Potter...Harry, drink."

The glow became more intense, and Harry felt an unknown feeling in his chest...as though it were burning...yet without the pain. He shot Cedric an aggrieved look.

"I don't want to go," he whispered pleadingly. "Please...I want to stay." He was instantly drawn back into strong arms, hugged so tightly he was sure that, if he weren't already dead, he would be. They stood that way for a few seconds, before Cedric once again pulled back, smiling as a single tear made its way down his face.

"I'll come visit you from time to time," he assured softly, reaching out and brushing away tears that had unknowingly escaped the smaller boy's emerald eyes. Then, without a warning, they were together once more, their lips crashing together in an overdue kiss. Harry melted instantly, more tears escaping his eyes. They broke apart, foreheads resting together, eyes locked.

"Perhaps if there had been another time," whispered the raven-haired boy softly.

The other nodded, and then, pressing a chaste kiss to Harry's lips, gave him a small push.

"Go."

And Harry screamed.

.T. 

Severus winced slightly as a sudden high-pitched scream erupted from Potter's lips, clutching him tighter as he twisted and turned within his arms. He was having a bad reaction to the blood. It had turned him...and yet it was slowly killing him again. Never before had he heard of such a happening with Vida blood before...it was used in Healing Draughts! However, there was no denying that the child in his arms was being killed from it.

Severus had to take him somewhere. Somewhere where he could be helped. St. Mungos was out of the question. They would Severus to death for turning the boy, and the boy to death for being what he was. There was no returning to Black's manor with him in such a state, either...there was nothing neither Black nor Lupin could do for him.

There was her... She did owe him one for saving her brat's life all those years back. Yes, she would work splendid...

Carefully rising from the floor, taking great care not jostle his charge and cause him anymore discomfort, Severus slowly made his way through the door of the horrifying bedroom, vainly attempting to shush the boy had whimpered in pain. He moved silently down the hallway, and smoothly down the stairs with the grace only a Vida Vampire could possess, grip tightening around the boy and a sneer forming on his face at the sight of the three Muggles still standing fearfully in the room. He caught sight of the fireplace, and his sneer formed into a smirk. Carefully maneuvering his hand so that he could properly move his wand, he gave it a small flick, causing the hearth doors to fly open, and a green flame to ignite. With little concern, he stepped towards it, pausing a moment to look over his shoulder.

"I trust none of his things are here?" The uncle, some of his confidence returning as he realized the freak was leaving his home, gave him a nasty smile.

"We burnt everything," he said, sounding boastful. Severus arched an eyebrow, giving Harry a small, absent rock as he began to whimper and twist again.

"Of course you did," he sneered, turning back to the fireplace. Without a bit of hesitation, he stepped right on the corner of it. Thank Merlin she did not require Floo Powder. He turned to face the Dursleys.

"Villa Salvus." The two wizards were pulled into emerald flames, disappearing from sight. So enthralled by the sight were they, that the Dursleys did not notice the tip of the wand that was still sticking out from the flames, and as such, had no chance to prepare themselves for the great ball of fire that engulfed themselves and their house.

"Magna Flamma." 

.T. 

She stared out the window, completely oblivious to the conversations of her family, though they surrounded her on both sides. They were so happy, so carefree... she wished she could have that.

But she couldn't.

Because Ginny Weasley was not with her family on this newly declared war. Before Hogwarts, she would have been, no doubt about it. Family came before all else, that was the Weasley motto.

But Ginny had had the chance to experience the other side. To see that, just maybe, the darkness that they were surrounded in wasn't so bad. Did not the Dark strive for the same things as the Light? Power? Peace? Maybe, just maybe, the Dark Lord had a point in his theories. Perhaps Muggle-borns really did dilute magic, or some of them, anyways. And she had yet to meet a Muggle that had been to her liking. And Tom, though in the end had used her, had been nothing but kind to her in the months that they had conversed. She did not hold his betrayal personally. It had been a war to him, and she had been a tool. It was nothing personal.

"Ginny? Eh, Ginny!" Ron's voice drew her from her thoughts, and she peered at the youngest elder brother with a dazed expression, to which in turn he gave her a small smirk. "Pass the potatoes, would you?" The red-haired witch looked down by her elbow, where the bowl innocently sat, waiting for her to move it.

"What? Oh, sure." She lifted the bowl and handed it Fred to pass to Ron, mindless of the fact that such an act was bound to cause trouble, and returned to her dazed look.

"Alright there, Gin?" Her head snapped to Bill, who was peering at her with concern as the rest of the family jumped back into the discussions. Oh, how she loved him. Her elder brother...the only one who could ever understand. Perhaps one day she would tell him...

"I'm fine, Bill," she assured, giving him a small smile. Looking skeptic, but inclined to comply, Bill returned to his dinner, not joining in on the conversations, taking occasional glances at his only sister.

Ginny looked down at her arm, gazing at the pale, unblemished flesh with fascination. Slowly, very slowly, she brought her fingernail from her index finger to the skin, and began to trace, with the utmost care, a skull, taking note to leave a small gap for the snake.

Maybe...

.T. 

"What's wrong with him? Why is it hurting him? Vida blood is a health rest-."

"I know everything that is about to come out of your mouth, Severus, so please sit down and shut up. Give me a few minutes to work."

"...Well?"

"Well? I'll tell you something, Severus Snape. You have royally fucked this up."

"How do you mean?"

"Are you not the last surviving Vida?"

"Of course I am. Why?"

"Because he is, too."

TBC 

OK, just a small note, no, Harry is not aware that Severus is his father. He was a bit too emotional to play connect-the-signs at the time. Sev, however, was not... 

Next Chapter: And it's off to Voldie's we go...can't imagine Harry will be too happy about that. (More angst/drama plus some action) 

Points to whoever can figure where I've sent Harry and Sev to! 

 

Don't forget, if you liked it, review it! (Por favor). 

-S.A.


	3. To Learn Truths, Part I

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Ginny Weasley, or any other characters found within the beautiful novels of J.K. Rowling (If I did, Harry and Draco would have been together ages ago). Likewise, I do not intend this fanfiction as any form of slander, nor do I make any profit from it. Thank you –bows and jumps to the end of the chapter-.

Notes: Some of you have complained about how I killed off Hedwig. I know it wasn’t creative – it wasn’t meant to be. There’s a thing behind it, so just wait until I finish the story before you throw a fit. Also, I have gotten about five e-mails requesting I write this chapter. I don’t mind them, but if you all would be so kind as to put ‘please’ in there somewhere, instead of just ordering me to do it, I’d appreciate it. My chapters come out when they come out. 

And, nope. No one guessed right on where Sev and Harry are. Won’t you be surprised? –beams-

To Reviewers: -sobs- I love you, I truly do –hugs you and soaks your clothes- Thank you so much!

To Readers: -affectionately swats you on the head with a newspaper- ‘Nough said.

Warnings: Child abuse (not Harry this time), language, self-harm not intended to be suicidal, and extreme AU.

Chapter Three

The air was warm and dry as night fell over the grand, yet small, Wizarding city of Danhue. The streets were quiet, void even of the late drunkards that were so popular in the neighboring Magical and Muggle areas. Though alive by day, even the alcohol loving fools knew better than to go about their business at night. To provoke a sleeping dragon had never been advised by anyone who had half a sense, for the creatures, once disturbed, took hours to calm down, and would usually fail to do so until vengeance for their unwanted awakening had been taken. However, the lack of activity on Danhue’s dirt roads could take nothing away from its beautiful brilliance, as thought the owner of the eyes that currently scanned the sacred city from the largest window of the tallest, grandest building of them all.

Albus Dumbledore envied Danhue more than he would ever care to admit. People, both those who held magic and those who did not, expected strange and mythical things to happen in Romania. Thus, witches and wizards could go about their everyday activities without having to worry about exposure. Granted, no Muggle ever got to lay their eyes upon a dragon, or witness one wizard hexing another, but as the Muggles tended to write off whatever they saw as a “well done parlor trick”, there was simply nothing holding it back. Unlike in Britain, where the blasted non-magical idiots were beginning to grow fearful of anything out of the ordinary, with their Prime Minister doing nothing to help the situation.

The ancient wizard released a sigh as he moved away from the window, allowing the sheer curtain to fall back into place as he moved to seat himself upon one of the plush, silken sofas that gave the room he was in so much life. He wished he could be here on a leisurely trip – he yearned for the peace and quiet he had taken for granted when he was a boy. But, alas, with Voldemort’s ever-untimely return, Albus highly doubted he would be able to relax in such a fashion for a very long time to come.

“You think too much,” growled a voice from the doorway, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts looked up.

Felix Flamel had hardly changed since Albus had seen him nearly fifty years ago. With long black and gray hair, with a matching beard and sharp, cool amethyst eyes, the Romanian Minister of Magic appeared not a day over thirty, instead of the one-hundred and seventy-five that he truly was. Nephew of his good friend Nicholas, Felix had more power in one finger than those who had graduated from Hogwarts this past year combined. Whilst no where near as powerful as Albus himself, Felix’s help had proved crucial in the First War against Lord Voldemort twenty-odd years back. However, whilst Albus had been forced to stay in the spotlight of the British Wizarding Community, Minister Flamel had simply been permitted to vanish, without one paper printing his successes, or one citizen recalling his name. And, despite their friendship, Albus envied that, too.

“Have I not always?” Inquired the white-haired wizard as he rose up to greet his friend. Felix smiled a toothy smile as he opened his arms for a quick embrace.

“Indeed you have,” admitted the old wizard gruffly. “That is why you look older than I, eh?” Albus’ blue eyes rolls as he took his seat once more, the other sitting across from him.

“Of course, of course,” he allowed, stopping himself from saying anything more as a servant stuck his head through the doorway, holding a teapot out questioningly, flinching as Felix frowned.

“Bring it in, then!” He barked, and the servant hurried to do so. Albus watched thoughtfully as the man shakily poured their tea, asking both wizards with his body language when to stop and what to add.

“You should really think about getting house-elves, my old friend,” he said softly as the servant finished. “They are far easier to handle than a Muggle, and much less a hassle, if I do say so.” A small frown formed on his face as Felix dismissed the Muggle with a wave.

“No, no,” said the Minister with a shake of his head. “It is traditional for every Minister to take non-magical servants. Besides, they are cast off squibs from pure-blooded families. They would be on the streets, if not in here. Now,” Felix took a sip of his tea before continuing, Albus doing the same. “I know you did not travel thousands of miles simply to discuss my choice of the species I use to help. So, then, what is it?”

“Voldemort,” replied Albus bluntly, seeing no reason to beat around the bush. He watched with morbid amusement as purple eyes grew wide instantly, and held back the forthcoming snort as some tea splashed out of the side of the side of the other wizard’s cup. Of all of the people he expected to be frightened of that name, Felix Flamel had been on the very bottom of the list.

“Lor- Lord Vol- Voldemort, you say, Albus?” Whispered Felix, and a small, nervous smile spread across his face. “What could you possibly have to say about him? He’s been dead for nearly fourteen years!” An image of Cornelius Fudge forced its way into Albus’ head, and he frowned at the similarity between his and Felix’s reactions.

“I am afraid to inform you, my dear Felix, that not only was Lord Voldemort never dead, but he, as of this June, has returned to the land of the solid, if you will.” He observed carefully the action of the man at this revelation. “Harry Potter himself witnessed it.”

“Potter?” Demanded Felix sharply. “Potter witnessed-.”

“Yes,” confirmed Albus cautiously. “And barely escaped with his life, I will add. We were lucky on that count.” Felix nodded, growing silent. His eyes glazed over; it was apparent that he was becoming lost in thought, and Albus allowed him the time to process the news.

“And your plans for the boy?” Asked Felix after several moments of the uncomfortable, quiet atmosphere. “What of them?”

“They have not changed,” said the wizard sharply. Felix’s eyes narrowed, his prior persona returning.

“So you have not told him-.” Albus cut him off quickly.

“I did not come here today to discuss with you Harry Potter, Felix. And you damn well know it.” If possible, the Minister’s glare grew colder.

“Then what is it you want?” Albus’ eyes took on an unidentifiable glint.

“The Capitis Damnare.”

.T.

Voices shouted, but to anyone who was not close to the mayhem, their words could not be distinguished. Several eyes peeked out windows, and more than half of the population of the surrounding houses had nosily left their beds in favor of ambling out their doors to witness the disaster firsthand. Nothing like this had ever happened around here before, and though they knew it to be polite, no one around could force themselves to feel the tiniest bit of remorse as they watched the firemen shooting water at the flickering flames.

Number four, Privet Drive, was on fire.

A small group of people, not dressed in anything remotely similar to the normal wear of police or fire rescue, stood on the sidewalk in front of the charred house, some speaking amongst themselves, other attempting to get information from the other sources around. Had anyone been truly paying attention to this lot of strangers, they would have noticed the odd taste in clothing, as well as the oddity of the topics they spoke. But all were far too absorbed with the fire to pay them much mind, and therefore, the members of the Order of the Phoenix were able to go undetected.

Arabella Figg, too, stared at the house, though her sharp gaze was calculating instead of mortified. The woman who had been living under the guise of a senile old lady with far too many cats now looked more regal than Queen Elizabeth II herself, her burgundy robe making her look all the more royal. Younger members tensed in respect as they passed by her, their minds wondering if, perhaps, the woman who had been assigned to look out for their Savior somehow… knew what was going on.

“’Bella.”

The woman turned her gray-haired head to meet the dark face of Kingsley Shacklebolt, an Auror she had trained herself, and was very proud of. Beads of sweat made their way down his forehead and into his dark brown eyes, but he remained unblinking as he waited for her acknowledgement.

“Were you able to find anything?” She inquired instantly, eyes searching his. Shacklebolt relaxed his stance and reluctantly shook his head.

“Nothing,” he said. “The Muggles won’t let me anywhere near the house, and I doubted very much that you wanted me to risk exposure simply to get inside a destroyed structure.” Arabella nodded in understanding, and urged him to continue. “I did hear, however, that they managed to pull out two… bodies. One female, and one male.”

Arabella froze, feeling icy as all the warmth the fire gave slowly shrunk down to her stomach and disappeared. “Were… were they able to identify if it was an adult?” Again, Kingsley shook his head.

“There was very little left to identify, and nothing we could use a Magical Scan on.” Shaklebolt’s eyes lowered and shifted nervously, and when he spoke, his voice lacked its usual assurance. “Is it… do you think… was Harry Potter in that house?” Those who had been standing near them stopped whatever it was they were doing as their co-worker voiced the question they all wanted to know.

Arabella’s eyebrows came together as she stopped to think about it, though the more she did, the more intense the feeling in her stomach became.

“I can’t be sure.”

Hours seemed to pass for those of the Order before the flames finally began to die down enough for the firemen to get inside. Many of the other residents of Privet Drive had long since returned to their own houses, though the occasional few still watched, hoping to be the sources of the best gossip the following day. Kingsley and Rebecca Rootworth, yet another, though less talented, of Arabella’s pupils had gone to see if what they feared had indeed come to pass. Those who were not occupied with searching the surrounding grounds waited anxiously for the Aurors’ return, knowing that the longer it took, the greater the chance was… Arabella shook her head as she noticed the blonde-haired Rootworth running toward her.

“It’s happened, it’s happened!” She cried, uncaring of the Muggles surrounding them. Her eyes were wide, and her movements wild. “They just pulled out two more bodies! One of them had to be him! It’s happened! Harry Potter is dead!” The very few who were not overwhelmed by the news rushed to quiet the hysterical witch quickly. Arabella’s hand flew to her chest, eyes closed tightly as images of the dark-haired, emerald-eyed boy flashed through her mind. She had always been cruel to him, so that his relatives would continue to allow him over. She had… she had never been given the chance to show him the affection she had longed to give him since she had first laid eyes on him nearly fifteen years ago…

“Auror Figg?” The concerned, slightly panicked voice ripped Arabella from her thoughts, and she found herself staring into the cobalt eyes of Emeline Vance, who looked at her searchingly. “What should we do, Madam?”

Arabella’s eyes scanned the area, the smell of sulfur from the dieing flames assaulting her nose harshly. What to do… what to do? Why hadn’t Moody demanded to come this time, as he always had before? Why should she have to deal with this now? Harry Potter was dead…

“He’s dead. Dead dead dead dead dead…” Arabella’s gave flew sharply to the babbling Rebecca. No doubt other awe-struck witches and wizards would have the same reaction as her when the news reached them. Then she saw the curious looks the Muggles were sending their direction, having finally noticed them, and she instantly felt herself snap into Auror mode.

“You two,” she said, motioning towards those who were holding and shushing Rebecca Rootworth. “Take her to Head Quarters immediately. See to it that she gets a Calming Draught, and do not let her speak to anyone.” The two Aurors nodded affirmatively, leading the emotional woman to a place where it would be safe to Dissapparate from. “Emeline, take your team and Obliviate the memories of every Muggle who could have heard us. We don’t want this news to spread too quickly. And keep an eye out for that Skeeter woman. You-Know-Who will find out about this before dawn if she gets hold of this.” Auror Vance gave a curt nod after a moments hesitation, signaling for her group to follow as she walked toward the nosey mass. Finally, Arabella turned to her remaining team, eyes cold and tone professional.

“Scan the area for any magical residue whatsoever. If this could have been caused by a spell, I want to know it.” They nodded and took off instantly, keeping to the shadows provided by the night to be kept invisible to the police and firemen. Arabella sighed as she watched, tears springing to her eyes once she saw a police officer zip close a bag containing one of the victims.

All she wanted to do was scream.

.T.

“Impossible.”

She recognized his stance immediately, having seen it numerous times before. Severus Snape had lived with her for three years; it would be a cold day in hell if she were unable to remember it. She frowned as the Potions Master neared the unconscious figure on the queen bed, and grasped his hand just as it was about to grasp the boy’s jaw.

“Severus Snape, that is quite enough.” Severus froze in his efforts to free himself, and stared at the woman with wide eyes. Never before had Andromeda Black spoken to him in such a manner. Her tone toward him had always been kind and gentle, like that of a mother to her scared child. But now her eyes flashed dangerously as she slowly released her grip; Severus pulled his hand away and clutched it as though it were burned. “You are in no state to touch this boy. You’re angry – you’ll hurt him whether you would mean to or not.”

“I would do no such thing!” Snarled the man, but sauntered off to the corner anyway. “It’s impossible for him to be a Vida,” he said quietly, so much so that she barely caught the words. “My family was the last surviving clan, and my mother died eighteen years ago. And there is no way I could have turned him, for obvious reasons. You’re mistaken.”

Andromeda frowned at the boy she had come to consider a son. The words were those classic in a case of denial; and she wasn’t wrong. The fangs were already beginning to knock away Harry Potter’s natural teeth, though Severus seemed dead set on not noticing that.

She agreed with him on one thing, though. Harry Potter had not been turned.

When Severus had come to live with her and Nymphadora after killing his father and her husband for their traitorous activities, Andromeda had spent countless hours pouring over books upon books on Vida Vampires. The teenager had been so accident-prone that she had to learn how to care for his injuries without doing something that would be dangerous or ineffective. The information found in those texts had been highly informative; apparently, a turned Vida Vampire would turn completely blue after accepting the blood of their sire, and the fangs would take days before making an appearance. A natural born, however, would only come into their inheritance after experiencing something of great emotional distress… and something else. She frowned as she tried to conjure up the information. Yes… something else… she couldn’t recall…

“I am leaving.” Andromeda was jolted back to the present at Severus’ words. The still Muggle-clad vampire had turned his back towards her, and was slowly making his way toward the door. She cocked her head at him, fair brunette hair falling to the side.

“And just where is it you think you’re going, Severus?” She inquired. The Hogwarts Potions Master turned his head to sneer at her.

“I must go and inform a certain mutt you’re related to that his godson is alive before the bloody Daily Prophet goes out, claiming him dead.” Here, he paused, and Andromeda was pleased to note the uncertain look on his face. “He…He is alright, isn’t he?” The witch cast a small, discreet glance at the unmoving figure resting on her guest bed.

“He will be.”

Severus gave her a curt nod, seeming to relax slightly, and darted out the door, bumping into and offering a brief apology to her daughter on the way. Nymphadora walked in, bright gold eyes containing a puzzled expression as they peered at her from beneath pixie-cut teal hair. Andromeda forced herself not to grimace at the twenty-one year old’s poor choice in appearance.

“Uncle Sev still being Uncle Sev?” She asked as she took a seat in the chair beside the boy’s bed. Andromeda nodded with a sigh.

“Of course. As though he would be any different.” The witch went back to her healing, mindful of all she had learned in the books of what to cast. The Muggles had been atrocious to him, of that there was no doubt. She paused in him ministrations, however, as Nymphadora suddenly leaned in closer to Harry, her nose practically touching his as she stared at him, unblinking.

“Nymphadora Narcissa Black, just what are you doing?” Cried Andromeda in exasperation, throwing her hands up in the air. Of all the children to be given, she had been cursed with the oddest of the bunch.

“They smell alike,” said Nymphadora suddenly.

“I beg your pardon?” Andromeda was taken aback. “Who smells alike?”

“Him and Uncle Sev,” said the girl as she pulled back, nodding toward Harry pointedly. “They have the same scent.” Andromeda stared, though did not truly watch, as her daughter lent down toward the boy again. The same scent…

Nymphadora had always been a conceptive child, even before Severus had saved her life. But after he had turned her, after he had given her abilities that no one could even begin to dream about, she had gained the senses equal to those of a werewolf. She was able to know things that not even a Mediwitch or wizard could know – she had been able to tell that Andromeda was coming down with a cold three days before she had shown any symptoms.

The same scent…

“Whilst it is true that no Natural Born Vida Vampire can come into their inheritance without an event that caused severe emotional distress, it is also required that the childe drink the blood of their father for a full transformation. It is for this reason that many Vida Vampires never reach their true state, despite having lived through more tragic times than necessary…”

“Oh my Goddess.” Andromeda’s hand flew to her throat as she peered down at the sleeping Vida. “Oh dear God.”

.T.

“Whilst it is true that no Natural Born Vida Vampire can come into their inheritance without an event that caused severe emotional distress, it is also required that the childe drink the blood of their father for a full transformation. It is for this reason that many Vida Vampires never reach their true state, despite having lived through more tragic times than necessary…”

He knew it was true. He had known it since Andromeda had told him that Potter was Vida. He had not completed the turning ritual required for Potter to become one.

Harry James Potter was not the son of James and Lily Potter, who had been placed down on his birth certificate as his natural parents.

He was the son of James Potter and Severus Snape.

Harry Potter was his son.

“Damn it, James!”

Severus had lost count of how many times he had shouted that phrase in the last half-hour.

He had not gone to Grimmuald Place, despite what he had told Andromeda, and had instead Flooed straight to his chambers in Hogwarts. For the past thirty minutes, he had torn the place apart, sending priceless heirlooms crashing into his stone walls, throwing any books that did not revolve around potions, or anything else of dire importance, into his growing fire. Shards of glass and figurines decorated his floor, and if it were not for the boots he wore, his feet would be cut into ribbons.

“You took the God-damned potion!” He cried out, combing his hands through his hair and clutching it painfully. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why?”

And Severus sunk to the floor, curling up against his couch, in a fetal position for the second time that night and not truly caring.

When James had married Lily Evans, and they had produced a son, it had hurt far worse than it had when he had been informed of James’ death. It had been the ultimate betrayal. The child that was supposed to be theirs had been only his…or so he had thought.

‘My son,’ he thought as his eyes began to close.

He was oblivious as the ever-sincere Dobby threw a blanket upon him, watching him momentarily with mournful brown eyes, before signaling to the other elves to help him clean up the mess.

He would go back in the morning.

.T.

HARRY POTTER AND RELATIVES PERISH IN FIRE! FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED!

At exactly eleven-thirty last night, Muggle authorities were called to a disturbance at number four, Privet Drive, now known as the residence of Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World and renowned Boy Who Lived. The house was in flames by the time help arrived, with no way to rescue the persons inside. By the time the fire had gone down, what remained of Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, their teenaged son Dudley, and our own Harry Potter were brought out; no survivors.

“It was awful!” Exclaims Anna Rhinehurst, 34, and Auror who had been at the scene. “There was nothing left to identify them with! Just bones and ashes!”

“A terrible way to die,” agrees Jovk Magnolia, 56, senior Auror who was also at the scene. “They said the electrical fire must have exploded, killin’ everyone. No chance of escape. At least there’s a chance he didn’t feel nothin’.”

Others, however, believe it to have not been an accident.

“There was magical residue surrounding that house,” stutters Arabella Figg, Master Auror and assigned Watcher for Mr. Potter, appearing shaken. “There was no sound of an explosion. Someone killed those people. Someone killed Harry. And it wasn’t a Muggle.”

“I bet it was Dumbledore,” sneers an unnamed source when questioned as he was being pulled away by Magical Law Enforcement. “That man’s always had a thing for the spotlight, and couldn’t handle it when wee Potter started getting his share.”

It was reported earlier this summer by Mr. Potter that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned during the end of the third task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Though Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge dismissed the claim, the evidence provided by Mr. Potter, along with this recent, unnerving event, are beginning to make citizens doubtful. Is it possible that You-Know-Who is indeed among us once more? And if so, what does it mean for the Wizarding World, with our Savior dead and to be buried in two days time?

Our prayers go out to Potter’s loved ones. He will always be in our thoughts. Good-Bye, our Savior. Good-bye.

Rita Skeeter

Dawn was barely piercing light through the windows of Malfoy Manor as Lucius spit out the last syllables of the article, his fist connecting with the side of his son’s face. Draco winced at the impact, though he did not show any signs of his weakness, despite the emptiness he now felt in his stomach. Harry Potter was dead. The only person whom had ever given Draco hope of surviving this world, of perhaps having a life without Lucius, had escaped the hell the children who attended Hogwarts now found themselves in. He had hoped that perhaps Potter could have helped him, could have seen through the lie he was living, could have ended all of the stupid talk of war…

“Look at what has happened!” Draco was jerked back to the present at the sound of his father’s roar, and flinched horribly as Lucius raised his fist yet again. “All of my hard work! All of my planning! Wasted!” His fist slammed into Draco’s face again, and this time, the blonde aristocratic Slytherin could not help but fall to one knee with a hitch in his breath. “I had spies in that house! I had spells on the Muggles! I was going to have his power. Crucio!” Draco bit his tongue hard to keep from crying out, falling to his other knee and lowering himself so far he almost touched the floor, the coppery taste of his own blood swarming throughout his mouth. The spell was lifted not ten seconds later, earlier than he normally would have done, and Draco could not help but look up at his father curiously, eyes widening when he noticed Lucius was holding his forearm. The wizard sneered down at him, and gave the fifteen-year-old a swift kick in the side for good measure.

“Clean yourself up,” he snarled. “You are going to the Zabinis’ today, and no son of mine will look like a whoring Mud-Blood.” He shook his boot as though to rid it of invisible dirt. “You will be going to Potter’s funeral tomorrow, and you will tell me how his darling friends and the Headmaster are acting. I want to know if this is all some trick.” And without another word, he stormed from the study, leaving Draco to finally express his pain. He groaned loudly, whimpering as he allowed himself to crash to the carpeted floor on his side. No matter how many times he experienced the Cruciatus Curse, every time felt like the first, and the worst.

“Master Draco, sir?” A silver eye popped open to see a tan, blue-eyed house-elf he didn’t know standing above him, looking rather confused with the whole situation. He suddenly found himself yearning for Dobby, and cursing his father for his incompetence in losing his faithful house-elf. “Master Lucius sends these close up for Master Draco, sir. He says, sir, that Master Draco is to be ready in half and hour’s time, and that Portia is to help him. So Portia is here, sir.” Draco merely groaned and allowed his eyes to close once more.

Merlin, he hated his life.

.T.

“Harry.”

He twisted at the whispered voice. Who was trying to wake him up? Oh, Merlin, please, just let him sleep…

“Harry… wake up, Harry.”

“Go ‘way, Ron,” he grumbled, twisting again. He didn’t care if this meant he was going to miss breakfast and be late to potions. He would have to take this up with Dumbledore later, too. A person should be allowed more than two hours of sleep, no matter the time they went to bed. After all, it wasn’t their fault that classes started so early.

“C’mon, Pronglet. You have to wake up.”

Slowly, very slowly, emerald eyes appeared from behind opening eyelids, only to meet a darkness that was identical to what there had been when they had been closed. There was no sign of the speaker anywhere. This was all oddly familiar… Cedric?

“Over here, Harry.” And he turned, expecting to see the brunette Seeker waiting for him, and his jaw dropped.

“D-Dad?” 

It was indeed James Potter, right down to the infamous glasses and unruly raven hair. He looked younger than he had when he had come out of Voldemort’s wand; healthier, more alive. He was clothed in Muggle attire, no doubt what he had been wearing when he had died, no sight of his wand anywhere. But Harry didn’t notice this.

His father was smiling at him. It was something that Harry had never thought he would see. It was filled with the fatherly pride and love that he had seen Arthur Weasley send to his children constantly – something that he had always yearned for. There was also a sparkle of amusement in his eyes, though whether it was at Harry’s actions or at his hesitation, he wasn’t sure.

“What?” Inquired the wizard with a small laugh. “You’ll take Cedric, but not me? I’m wounded, Pronglet!” He opened his arms, and that was all it took for Harry to race to him. Mr. Weasley had never hugged him; he had had no idea what a fatherly touch felt like until now.

‘Granted, I am hugging a dead guy,’ he thought morbidly, oddly clutching James tighter. ‘But, I have to admit, it is nice.’

They stood that way for several minutes, simply enjoying the contact they had been denied for nearly fourteen years, before James lightly pushed him away, and just gazed at him. Harry was too enthralled with the whole situation to notice the saddened look James’ eyes had suddenly taken on.

“Where’s Mum?” Demanded Harry, looking around vigorously for the beautiful red-haired woman he had come to love. If possible, James’ eyes became even sadder, and he rested a hand on his son’s shoulder. Instantly, from years of experience, Harry knew something was wrong, and gazed at his father warily.

“Harry,” said James softly. “There are some things I need to tell you. They’re going to be difficult to believe, but trust me, they’re true.”

.T.

The humble abode of the Grangers was quiet as the clock struck eight o'clock. It was Mr. and Mrs. Granger's day off from the office, and they had opted to spend some of the holiday catching up on much needed sleep. Their young teenaged daughter, Hermione, had stayed up until two in the morning reading various text from the wizarding world, and was thus lying on her still-made bed, still clothed in her day attire, How to Become an Animagus, open to its center, serving as her pillow.

However, fate did not see it fit to be kind to the knowledgeable Gryffindor, as the second the clock stopped its dinging, tapping on her window jolted the bushy-haired girl from her sleep.

Tap, tap tap, tap. Tap tap.

Brown eyes glared at the window, trying to decipher what was making the racket, and with a yawn, Hermione pushed herself up from her bed, stretching her arms and wincing at the resulting pops, and she finally pushed the window up.

It was the owl who delivered her Daily Prophet.

"A bit early, aren't you?" She inquired sourly, giving the indifferent creature a dirty look. "Don't I pay you to get here at ten?" The owl sent her a baleful look, letting her know her feelings were mutual, and stuck out its left leg, to which the Prophet was tied. Growling, Hermione quickly retrieved it, snatching her money pouch from her desk. "I'm not paying you full price," she said as she deposited a knut into its own pouch. The owl gave her a look as though to say "And I care because...?" before spreading his wings and taking off.

"Bloody birds," sighed Hermione as she slammed the window shut, wincing as her father gave an extra loud snore. When there was no sound of movement from the other room, Hermione took up the Prophet and made her way back towards her bed, with every intention of going to sleep. Just as she sat on the bed, however, the bold-faced headline caught her eye.

And Mr. and Mrs. Granger, victims of the ever-mischievous fate, were snatched from their sleep by the sound of their daughter's horrified scream.

.T.

He sat there, simply staring, simply thinking. Ok, he considered himself to be pretty good at taking unbelievable news. When Hagrid had informed him of his being a wizard, it had only taken him a few hours to get used to the idea, not counting the sudden acceptance of it in order to get away from the Dursleys. When Hagrid had informed him of his status as the Boy Who Lived, he had taken it in stride, though granted, he had not known of the dangers being a savior would bring him. When he had seen moving portraits, ghosts, strange creatures, and magic in general, he had not bulked, nor ever thought himself to be crazy. 

This, however, was not unbelievable news.

This was downright impossible news.

He was sitting with his father, who was supposedly dead, and who had just seen it fit to inform him…that not only did he not have a mother… but he had another father. As in… two fathers. And that in itself was not disturbing to him. After all, had he not just kissed a very dead, yet very solid Cedric Diggory? No, it was not the fact that he had two fathers that disturbed him.

It was the fact that the other father was none other than Severus Snape, infamous Potions Professor at Hogwarts and Head of Slytherin House, not to mention a man that hated him with every fiber of his being. A man who constantly went out of his way to make Harry’s life hell simply because he was the son of James Potter.

Who also happened to be his one-time lover. Of course, his father had explained all of that as well, though in very little… extremely little detail, claiming that he had betrayed Severus in a the most unforgivable way, and had never told him that Harry was his. Something he apologized profusely for, as not only had he kept Harry from a living relative who would have cared for him (Harry still snorted at that thought), but it had also left Harry in the guardianship of the Dursleys.

“This is all rather confusing,” the Gryffindor finally admitted, giving a small, humorless chuckle. James nodded slightly.

“I know,” he said softly. “I wish I could make it easier. The whole mess is my fault. I should have told Severus when I had the chance.” He gave his son a reproachful look. “It won’t be easy on him, either, you know.” Harry looked away, not commenting.

"Harry," continued James with a sigh. "I know Severus has been...well... a bastard to you. Merlin knows you're not the only victim of that awful habit. But," he reached out and lightly cuffed Harry's chin. "He always wanted children. If it weren't for the spying..." James drew off and looked down; obviously the memory was a painful one for him. Harry sighed, not liking the look that adorned his father's face, and finally ground out his defeat.

"I'll give him a chance, alright? I'm not promising you anything, but... I'll try." James' head lifted, and he beamed at Harry with a sad look.

"That's all I can ask for."

“Oi! Wotcher, Harry! Beautiful morning, don’t you think?”

Harry and James both groaned as the obviously feminine voice assaulted their ears. Through this, James smirked.

“Same old Nymph,” he barked shortly, rubbing his ears as the last of the echo died away. Harry, however, scowled.

“I always get dragged out of here that way,” he said sourly, rising to his feet. He gave James a somewhat sad look as the older wizard followed his lead. “I suppose it’s time for me to go then, huh?” The taller man nodded gloomily

“Oops… I wasn't supposed to wake him. Go back to sleep, Harry!”

“Bloody Vampire!” Growled James, shooting a glare upward before returning his gaze to his son. “Well, I guess this is good-bye?” He asked. All confusion and anger Harry had felt toward his father for the situation died away, and he embraced him once more. “Now, remember. Things are going to change drastically, Harry. You're going to be discovering that a lot of what you have known is a lie."

James gave his son one last squeeze, before Harry found himself, yet again, torn from a world his mind had created.

.T.

His eyes opened slowly, though he closed them the very next instant, the light burning his senses. He heard a bit of shuffling around the room he was in, and strained to listen.

"An Order meeting has been called - Albus is back from Romania, no doubt." He frowned, not recognizing the woman's voice, and mentally cursed his father for not telling him where exactly it was he was. "Keep an eye on him, will you? And don't you dare wake him up, Nymphadora Black, or may Merlin help you." Nymphadora...Nymphadora... could she be 'Nymph'? And Black as a surname? Could she be related to Sirius? "I'll probably be a little late, too. I doubt Severus went to speak with Sirius as he said. No doubt my cousin is anxious with worry." Well, that answered that question.

"Mum." Harry felt a spark of amusement at the annoyed whine. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of a 'newly born' Vida Vampire." Harry froze. Vi - what? Vampire? Surely the women were not discussing him. His father would have told him something that important, right?

Right?

"I'll walk you to the door," said the obviously younger girl in a nonchalant tone. The other gave a noise of dissaproval, but made no verbal refusal. Harry listened to their retreating footsteps, making sure they were completely gone before his eyes snapped open, this time, ignoring the light.

He was in an unusually bright room, with colors more fierce than those of the Gryffindor Common Room when the windows were open in the morning. It was certainly not a place he had ever been to.

"Professor Snape's, maybe?" He thought out loud, wincing as his voice grated in his throat as he pushed himself to his elbows. However, he couldn't imagine his Potions Professor... his... father... living in such a colorful place.

Slowly, giving little hitches of the breath whenever he hit a tender area, Harry brought himself from the comfortable mattress, shivering as he realized he was only clothed in magically conjured pajama pants.

The pain of his beatings were gone, and he sent endless silent thank-yous to whomever had healed his injuries. He had forgotten what it was like to move without the fear of breaking open a lash or two.

"Well, aren't you just a dapper young man?" Said an amused voice.

Harry whirled around, expression guarded and stance defensive as he prepared a quick explanation for whomever was there. However, not one person met his gaze.

"Over here, honey." He whirled around again, and this time stumbled back in shock. For though before him was a mirror, it currently had a liquid-like face sticking out of it, who chuckled at his reaction. "No need to be afraid, dear," said the face kindly. "I'm just complimenting you, is all."

"R-Right," Harry stuttered, blinking rapidly. "Er, thanks, and all." What did one say to a mirror? "But could you...er... turn back to a mirror? No offence, but you're kind of freaking me out." The mirror seemed to scowl at him, but gave a very small nod.

"Fine." And with a sigh, it disappeared, leaving a nice, normal mirror in its place. Harry groaned and stepped forward once more, the tune to the show Dudley used to watch... the Twilight Zone?... playing in his mind as he gazed at his reflection. And again, his expression was that of shock.

His hair now reached the base of his neck, and was more shiny and smooth than he could ever remember it being, even when it was wet. He was taller, and leaner than before, still holding the stature of a Seeker, yet looking far more like Snape than he cared to admit. Perhaps the most amazing difference, however, was his eyes. No longer were they the infamous emerald that had gained him so many compliments and so much romantic attention, but an extremely dark blue... nearly the color of midnight. Almost like his dad's, and yet... with a black tinge... Snape's gift to him, no doubt.

"So it is true," he whispered softly, and froze. He was so entranced that he did not hear the pounding footsteps rushing up the stairs, nor the door opening and the gasp emitted from the lips of the stranger.

What the hell were those?

"You're awake!" Harry turned at the sound of the familiar voice, and blanched slightly at the sight of the red-haired, pink-eyed woman who was gaping at him. Nymphadora Black. "Are you feeling better?"

Harry did not answer her question. Instead, he backed up against the wall, staring at her with wide blue eyes. Nymphadora adopted a concerned look, and approached him carefully.

"Harry?"

"What the bloody hell," bit out the Gryffindor as he pressed further against the cool wallpaper. "Am I?"

.T.

Severus shivered from the coldness of the room, and sent the man on the chair before him a cool glare, though he knew it could not be seen. He was aware that Lord Voldemort loved to keep up appearances, but why in the name of Merlin did he have to have the bloody hall so cold, and why, why did he have to call a meeting at bloody five in the morning?

Four hours had passed since the pain in his forearm had jolted him from his sleep; he had been disgusted to find himself on the floor with a blanket draped over him. For those four hours, Severus had stood rooted on this very spot, save for the few steps he had taken to allow Lucius Malfoy to stand in his usual spot by his side. He knew Voldemort enjoyed every moment of intimidating the more cowardly, less loyal Death Eaters... but there were times he just wanted to kill the man.

"This newssss," hissed his Lord in a faux snake-like way. "Isss very dissssturbing. Harry Potter, killed in an accccident? Impossssible." Red eyes gazed threateningly around the room, and landed on Lucius with annoyance. "Luccccciusssss, you dissssssapoint me." Severus bit back a smirk as he felt the blonde aristocrat stifle beside him, wishing, for the first time, that had brought his mask so he wouldn't have to hide the look of enjoyment. He held no lost love for Lucius Malfoy.

"My Lord?" Asked the man fearfully. Severus' smile grew. Oh, yes. This would be quite fun. Lord Voldemort scowled in anger.

"You have dared to bring me an article by thissss... Rita Ssssssketer. She writesssss no truthsssss." Lucius took an involuntary step forward.

"But...but my Lord!" He cried softly. "Other reporters have said the same-."

"Ssssssilence!" Bellowed the powerful wizard, and Severus was amazed at the deafening silence that came from the command. Apparently, other Death Eaters had been talking without permission as well. Lord Voldemort's eyes narrowed even more dangerously than before. "You overssssstep your boundariesssss, Luciusssss." Instantly, Lucius stepped back into place beside Severus, though he knew that would not prevent punishment. "You are fortunate today, Luciussss," continued Voldemort, and the wizard looked up in surprise. "I have more pressssing businesssss to attend to." He lifted his head to view the rest of his followers, and the vampire resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the man's arrogance. "You are all dissssmisssssed. Sssseverussss, sssstay beind."

For the next two minutes, several conversations and pops and cracks echoed throughout the hall as the Death Eaters obeyed their master's command. Lucius was the last to leave, shooting Severus a curious, yet distasteful look. When the hall was empty, save for the two wizards, Severus allowed himself to relax, and Voldemort allowed his glamour to drop, revealing a handsome man who looked to be near forty, with dusty brown hair and the infamous crimson eyes.

"Come," beckoned Voldemort, motioning toward a set of double doors that would lead to his study. The Head of Slytherin followed him inside, taking the seat he knew he would be offered, bringing his hand up to massage his head. Voldemort passed him a drink as he took the chair behind the desk, giving his favorite Death Eater a concerned look. "What's happened? You look like shit, Severus." The raven-haired man gave a humorless snort.

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Voldemort curled his lip at the sarcastic words, but did not rebuke him.

"I'm serious, Severus Snape."

"I know," admitted the younger wizard with a sigh. Voldemort waited patiently for him to continue, and was not to be disappointed. "You knew that... James Potter and I were in a relationship, did you not?" Voldemort nodded, a slight feeling of guilt dropping into his stomach, knowing he was responsible for the death of his friend's lover. "Well... it appears as though he decided to keep a very important secret from me."

"Was he ill?" Inquired his lord instantly. "Have you contracted a disease? Do you require-." Severus shook his head to cut him off.

"It's nothing like that, my Lord," he assured. He took in a deep breath. It was now or never; he wouldn't react well to the news either way. "He was pregnant."

Lord Voldemort's eyes widened impossibly so, and he blinked slowly, registering the information. "Pre-Pregnant? But, what about..." He drew off, giving Severus an incredulous look. "No. Severus... Harry Potter is not your son." Severus nodded sagely, feeling a bit defensive of the boy at his lord's tone, though why, he did not know. Harry Potter was his son, certainly, but that didn't mean anything. It meant nothing.

Lord Voldemort got up from his seat so quickly that the wizard started, sending the parchment pieces that had covered his desk scattering to the floor. "I need to think on this."

He needed to think? Why would he need to think? He wasn't the one who had been told that a boy he had hated since the day he was born was, in truth, his son.

Severus didn't know how long they were in there, though he did know that by the time the elder wizard had stopped pacing, he was quite dizzy. Voldemort's crimson eyes locked with his obsidan ones, and he finally spoke.

"Is it possible that he can be turned?" He asked, all business. Severus quickly nodded.

"He'll have to. Dumbledore despises vampires; it's taking every bit of his restraint to keep me on as it is." Severus fell silent as Voldemort suddenly gripped his head. "My Lord?"

"I'm fine," said the wizard quickly, releasing his grasp. He raised his head, and his eyes were now cool and calculating. "Severus, I want you to bring Mr. Potter to Mors Amor." The Potions Master's eyes widened, and he stared a this lord in disbelief.

"My...my Lord?"

"The papers have claimed Harry Potter dead. I don't know whom the fourth body belongs to, but it is a guise we will use. You will bring... your son... to Mors Amor," he repeated with a small, delighted smirk at the jab. "If he can see that we are not the different, if not better than his 'Light', than perhaps we can get him over to us after all." He gave Severus a small sparkle. "After all, Severus. He is your son. Certainly you don't want Dumbledore to have any say in his life, do you?"

Severus frowned, knowing that no matter his previous thoughts, he would be bringing... his son to Lord Voldemort's magical village by the end of the day. With a growl of annoyance, Severus shot up from his chair, sending the Lord a cool glance.

"Take care of your headache." And with that, he Apparated away, Lord Voldemort's laughter echoing all the way to Villa Salvus.

.T.

She raced up to her room, slamming her door shut, once again thankful that she was the only one of the Weasley children that did not have to share her room with a brother. She threw herself onto the floor between her bed and nightstand, mindful to keep her landing soft so that no one would hear the thud and come up to check. Granted, she believed that, right now, she could stomp and throw things and scream at the top of her lungs, and no one downstairs would be any the wiser. For as it was, there was not one dry eye within the Burrow, and there had not been since the Daily Prophet had soared through their window that morning.

“He’s dead,” sobbed Ginny as she buried her head within her arms. “Dead, dead, dead!”

Ginny had always considered Harry Potter as a mix between a brother and lover, though after the events of last year, was leaning more toward the prior. He was a nice guy; far from the stuck-up guy that the Twins were sure he would be. He had always been kind to her, and had rescued her from Tom’s insanity during her first year in Hogwarts. Sometimes, she considered him more of a brother than Ron, just because he was so easy to talk to and get along with. He didn’t hold any of the biased opinions of her brothers, and was just about as naïve to everything as a child turned loose outside for the first time. He was the only one, besides Bill, that Ginny felt she could talk to about her recent thoughts. The only one she knew for sure would understand.

And now he was dead.

She sat up suddenly, tear streaks running down her face and disheveled red hair sent in all directions. She spared a distasteful glance down at her arm, where the Dark Mark she had traced was already beginning to fade. Harry was gone… there was no reason to hide it now. She snatched her wand off of the table.

From downstairs, she could hear Ron begin to boil up his rant, as she knew he would do. It had taken longer than normal for the emotional wizard, but, then again, this wasn't the death of a pet owl or something. His best friend was dead.

Harry would be the only reason she wouldn't change. He was so innocent, so trusting, she would never do anything to hurt him, even if it was best for her.

'But he's gone now,' she reminded herself firmly. She flinched at the sound of items slamming into other items, signaling that Ron was now beyond hysterical. It was now or never, whilst the rest of her family had their hands full with her brother. With no hesitation, she placed the tip of her wand to her wrist.

"Engravent."

Ginny was forced to wince as the pain seared through her arm, feeling more like a branding iron than a knife, as she had thought it would. Carefully and slowly, she began to trace the outline of the Dark Mark on her arm, enthralled as she saw the image begin to take life. Sometimes, French spells were far more extravagent than Latin ones. The second she finished the outline of the skull, it filled in with black, and the eye sockets with a light gray. The snake came next, its green body and piercing red eyes looking so alive that it was eerie.

It didn't look like the usual Dark Mark, but that was fine. She didn't want it to.

She was better than the Death Eaters. They followed the Dark Lord for power. She would follow for his ideals.

The red-haired witch stared at the mark for a moment. Her blood was beginning to slow from the cut; she would have to clean it up later, but for now, it seemed to suit it. However, something was missing... something that... oh.

She placed her wand on what would be the forehead of the skull.

"Boulon éclair." She smiled softly at the sight of the white lightning bolt suddenly in place. A tribute.

'I love you, Harry.' She thought sadly, tracing the mark. Slowly, she rolled her sleeve down to cover it, and yawned. Whilst French spells were more imaginative, they were also more taxing.

As Ginny curled up on her bed, not bothering to cover herself with her blanket, she did not notice the figure looming in the shadows of her room. It was for that reason that she did not see the youthful Tom Riddle step into the thin sunlight, a small smirk on his face.

"My little snake," he crooned softly, once he was sure she was asleep, the image of her self-made Dark Mark still imprinted in his mind. "How much you hurt, and how needlessly so." He reached out to stroke nimble fingers through her firey locks, the touch tender. "Soon, Little Snake," he promised, crimson eyes glittering as they stared out the window, his hand absently continuing the soothing movements. "Soon you will have what it is you desire."

.T.

Severus Snape all but tumbled to the floor when the Floo finally shot him out of its network. He despised the transportation method, but as Andromeda was paranoid (and rightfully so), there was no other way into Villa Salvus. A string of mumbled curses left his mouth as he dusted his robes of their ashes, and it was only a soft chuckle that cut them off. He raised his face to meet that of Nymphadora, who smiled at him softly, though it faded when she noticed his expression.

"He's awake," she offered instead. Severus rose an eyebrow, and with a sigh of disbelief. "Harry Potter is awake. He was scared out of his mind earlier, but we talked, and it got fixed." It was Severus' turn to be incredulous.

"You told him everything?" He demanded harshly. Though the words were not spoken aloud, Nymphadora knew the 'secret' to which his question mostly referred.

"I had to tell him about being a vampire. His bloody fangs grew in, not to mention Nority was being her usual self and got him to look into her damn mirror." Nymphadora cast him a look. "If you're asking if I told him about you being his father, the answer is no. He already knew."

"How?" Demanded the Head of Slytherin instantly, a thousand other questions running through his mind. How had the boy taken it? Was he angry? Did he expect Severus to be all emotional and father-like? The vampire before him shrugged, though when she spoke, her voice was soft and careful.

"He said Uncle Jimmy told him.”

'James?'

Severus strode briskly past her, making his way for the winding staircase that would lead to Potter's room.

"Is your mother at the Order meeting?" He inquired as he took the steps two at a time, Nymphadora on his heels. The girl took in a deep breath as she replied, nowhere near as fit as him, as her room was on the bottom floor.

"Yup,” replied Nymphadora, not even asking how he knew. “She said she would tell Sirius for you, since she doubted you had." Severus shook his head. The witch knew him far too well. As they reached the top, Severus turned to give the woman a reproachful look.

“Lord Voldemort has requested that I bring him to Mors Amor. I though the sooner we left, the better, which seems to be a good idea now that Dumbledore’s back… has Potter seen the Daily Prophet?” Nymphadora shook her head, a slightly skeptical look on her face.

“You think that’s a good idea, taking him to Voldemort and all? I mean,” she continued quickly, seeing Severus’ offended look. “He just found out you’re his father. Voldemort is sworn enemy number one.”

“I don’t care,” said the Potions Master softly. “Will you go ahead and make sure Wormtail,” he spit out the name as though it were the vilest thing on the planet. “Isn’t anywhere around? No need to work him up anymore than he’s going to be.” Nymphadora nodded, recognizing the dismissal for what it was, and threw herself onto the banister to slide all the way back down. Severus’ eyes rolled at her immaturity, before he turned toward the door his son was behind. With a sigh, he opened it.

And found himself with an almost perfect carbon copy of himself standing in the middle of the room. For a moment, Severus allowed himself to be awed with his son’s appearance.

Harry was a perfect mixture of himself and James, with no signs of Lily Evans anywhere. Longer hair, a taller, healthier looking body (if one were to ignore the scars), the graceful look only a Vida could posses. Even his eyes lacked the normal taunting emerald color.

The two stared at one another for a long time, cobalt eyes locked with obsidian, and it was Harry was the one who finally broke the silence.

“I don’t know if I can think of myself as your son.” The whispered words snapped Severus out of his stupor, and he approached the boy, a sneer on his face, missing the Gryffindor’s flinch.

“I assure you, Mr. Potter, that the feeling is mutual.” Harry looked away at the harsh words so that Severus would not see the hurt he felt. With a growl, Severus reached to fingers down the collar of his robe and withdrew a small charm on a fine chain. “Grab hold of this.” Harry looked up again, a frown on his face when he saw what the older vampire was holding.

“Why?” He asked warily, and it was all Severus could do not to explode. The phoenix mark on his back was burning something fierce, as it did every time there was an Order meeting, making him increasingly irritated. With a growl, he snatched Harry’s hand in his, ignoring the boy’s startled protest, and enclosed it tightly around the shamrock charm.

“Mors Amor.”

TBC

Ok…so… I liked it, and then I didn’t like it, and then I liked it again… and then it ended with me not liking it. A bit of fifty/fifty, so I didn’t even consider rewriting it… especially since I’ve done that about ten times already –blinks-.

Next Chapter: Harry’s funeral, in which the Gryffindors collide with our favorite Slytherin duo (well… mine, anyway), and Harry’s nice confrontation with Voldemort. Now, this chapter will be much better than this one (promise!), but I will be putting so much AU into it that I get a headache just thinking about it. A little bit of every character in it, I think.

Notes: Everything that has been given as a hint to Harry is a hint to you lot, as well! I’m practically giving away the plot of the sequel with this stuff! (So pay attention!). ALSO, Severus will go all dad on us within the next two chapters (he has to! No story otherwise), so no worries. And Draco’s abuse WILL play a large roll later on in the story –raises eyebrows- Makes me think… -shuts mouth-. Also (again) please note the name of this chapter. The next will be part II, so if there are any gaps in here, they'll be filled in in there (patience is a virtue -wink-). 

OK, you guys, I’m done, and I’m out. Supernatural is on tonight, and I plan to watch it –insane laughter-. Drop me a line and let me know what you thought of the chapter.

-Brit

(P.S.) I’ll be giving some surprises for y’all later. Keep an eye out… or two –winks-


	4. To Learn Truths, Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Thomas Marvolo Riddle (Lord Voldemort), Ginny Weasley, or any character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels.

Notes: -sniffs sadly- Yes, it would make a good Draco/Harry, wouldn’t it? Oh, well. No, there is no Voldemort/Ginny (though they do have a close relationship.), no Severus/Voldemort, etc., etc. ‘Tis a Harry/Voldemort.

Also, this chapter is not as dark as the previous 3, nor as dark as the next one. –stares momentarily- Kinda angsty, though. 

To Reviewers: I think I’m going to die. 134? I love you! Seriously, honestly…will you marry me? (just kidding!) I hope this chapter meets with your expectations.

To Readers: -raises newspaper again- Do I need to hit you again? –pointed look-

Warnings: Angst, slash, mentions of child abuse, and strong language (basically, nothing you haven’t seen in this story before). Enjoy!

Chapter Four

He had closed his eyes tightly the second he felt Profes – Snape grasp his hand and force his grip upon the portkey, and though he knew they had arrived at their destination, refused to open them. His stomach felt as though it were trying out for a Muggle gymnastics team, and it took every ounce of his control to keep himself from vomiting. He could still not, for the life of him, get used to the feeling portkeys provided. Not since last term…

“Are you ill, Potter?” Harry tensed drastically at the sound of Snape’s sneering tone, more so out of surprise at the hint of concern underneath the layers of disgust than actually being spoken to. So surprised in fact, that his newly-turned midnight eyes shot open to view the elder wizard for himself, and to make sure that he himself wasn’t dead and in some personal hell.

Unfortunately, Snape was not in front of him, leaving Harry to get a full view of his surroundings.

It was so similar to the Chamber of Secrets that chills traveled their way endlessly down the raven-haired teen’s back. The room loosely resembled the Great Hall of Hogwarts; only it was more dark and damp than a leaky basement. Where there should have been tables, there were rows and rows of stiff-backed wooden chairs, giving Harry the impression that this was not an area in which were held social events. Aligning each wall were extremely tall cement statues of dangerously-poised serpents, each whose eyes seemed to peer down at him with a hunger only a snake could posses, their tails all pointing in one direction, as though daring him to look. He did, and stumbled a good three feet back, hand breaking free of Snape’s in the process, for at the head of the room, glaring with the most murderous eyes Harry had ever locked gazes with, was a portrait of Salazar Slytherin himself, who was smirking as he rested a hand on the shoulder of a crimson-eyed wizard beside him.

Bloody hell…

Bloody fucking hell…

He rounded on the other man, who was watching the entire scene impassively, and could not keep the tremor of fear out of his voice as he spoke.

“Where the hell are we?” He demanded softly, already knowing, but needing to see Snape confirm it. However, the Potions Master said nothing. “Where in the fucking hells are we?” Demanded Harry again, volume rising. This time, Snape responded, a scowl forming on his face as the words left his lips.

“You already know that answer, Mr. Potter,” he said coolly, and this time, Harry detected no hint of a hidden emotion. His cobalt eyes went wide as his fear was confirmed, and what little color had returned to his face fled instantly.

“No,” he whispered, shaking his head and stepping further back. “You wouldn’t…” Snape’s frown deepened as he took a step forward, obsidian eyes flashing with annoyance, but Harry continued to move further back. He couldn’t believe it. This man, who was supposed to care for him, and cherish him, had brought him to the home of the man who had murdered his parents… his father and Lily. The very wizard who had wanted him dead for nearly fifteen years, and who took a shot of trying to make that wish come true every chance he got. This was all some hellish nightmare… or perhaps it was hell. Maybe he had truly died last night, and this was his eternity. Either way, he shrunk back further yet as Snape continued to advance.

“Mr. Potter,” said the middle-aged wizard in a warning tone. “You will cease this foolish nonsense at once. You are acting most inappropriately-.” Harry cut him off.

“How could you?” He cried, finally drawing to a stop in his movements. “You’re supposed to be my father! How could you bring me here? Do you hate me so much that you want me dead?” He continued to grow more and more hysterical, though a bit of his normal biting tone towards Severus returned. "Are you going to get off while he tortures me? Will you help him?" Snape’s gaze grew frosty at this, and before Harry could blink, the Potions Master’s bony fingers were wrapped around his wrist, squeezing it so tightly that the Gryffindor was sure it was going to break. He looked up at the taller wizard with fearful eyes, only to meet impassive ones in response, and he cringed in terror as Snape’s words left him in a burning tone.

“You will stop this childish behavior immediately, and you will never speak to me in that fashion again, is that understood?” He growled. Harry gave him no reply, still refusing to look at him, and Snape was about to speak again when another voice interrupted him.

“Severus Snape, unless you wish to meet the end of my wand and whatever curse leaves it, you will unhand that child this instant.” Snape’s hold instantly relinquished, causing Harry to stumble back a few steps before opening his eyes to see his savior. However, no one but himself and Snape were in sight. He looked toward the other man, to see which direction he was looking in, only to see him on his knees on the floor, nose barely inches from the cool stone, posture completely submissive. And he knew then who had been the speaker.

“Voldemort,” he said softly, looking back toward the portrait, somehow knowing the Dark Lord would be there. And indeed he was, but not as the snake Harry remembered him being. Lord Voldemort, known as Thomas Riddle II some fifty years back, appeared to be around the age of late-thirties to just-forty, with a lean yet muscled build, and his ever-infamous crimson eyes to match. If it weren’t for the fact that he both despised and feared him, Harry would have, albeit reluctantly, admitted that the dark wizard was somewhat attractive.

“My apologies for the way you were brought here, Master Potter,” said the Dark Lord softly, catching Harry off guard and making him stand in a defensive mode. The stance increased intensity as Voldemort studied him with his all-knowing smirk, one that Harry had never seen followed by a good action. He didn’t relax even as the wizard’s gaze shifted from him to Snape. “I didn’t say to bring him today, Severus,” he chided softly. Harry jerked in astonishment at the kind tone as Snape slowly dragged himself to his feet, offering the Dark Lord a small bow.

“I apologize, my Lord,” he said in monotone. “But Dumbledore called an Order meeting, and will no doubt be checking Andromeda’s manor once he notices how strange she is acting.” There was a slight pause before Lord Voldemort gave a short, agreeing nod.

“She never was one to be discreet. However,” his voice and posture grew serious, a spark of the Voldemort Harry knew and hated showing through. He pressed himself further back against the wall, hoping vainly that his presence would be forgotten. “You could have treated him a little more kindly. He is your son, after all.”

“He is James’s son!” Hissed Snape. “I did not want a child.” Harry once again flinched as yet another bout of cold words left the mouth of his supposed second father, not noticing Voldemort’s crimson eyes shooting briefly in his direction. “Let’s discuss this later.”

“We’ll discuss this now,” said Voldemort, leaving no room for argument. Harry’s breathing stopped and his heart froze as he watched Voldemort remove his wand from the pocket of his red-hemmed black robes.

“Stupefy.”

.T.

Never before, in the history of its existence, had Black Manor (officially renamed Grimmauld Place by its current owner, Sirius Black) seen such a large group of people in the kitchen so early in the morning. Oh, certainly, it had seen its fair share of the group of Order members at other times during a day, but morning tended to be quiet, if one were to ignore the laughter of the animagus a werewolf that resided there, as well as the shrieks from the portrait of its former mistress. And it was not as though the previous family had been a large one, or, indeed, even a small one that would sit down and dine together in the morning. So, it was rather understandable that every portrait within the kitchen were currently pressing their ears against their frames to hear the conversation.

For once, Sirius paid them no mind.

The ex-Azkaban convict sat in the middle of the left side of the long, rectangular table, Remus on one side, Mad-Eye Moody on the other. Surrounding him were more people than had been in his graduating class, not one of them without a somber face.

Oh, how he wanted to scream at them for not smiling! How he wanted to shout at them for not laughing, and strangle them for not making an attempt at having a light conversation at all! He yearned to physically make them, in some way, not feel the pain he was feeling. They had no right to feel the pain he was feeling. They had not known Harry. They had not cared for him or about him, and only showed interest in his personal business and whether or not he was strong enough to save them from the Dark Lord. They didn’t care, and they had the nerve to sit before him and shed tears! Oh, how he yearned to rip them to shreds!

What could have gone wrong? Waves of despair washed over Sirius with no mercy as the question flowed through his head from the hundredth time that morning. What could have happened? Snape was supposed to bring Harry from the Dursleys to here. There wasn’t meant to be any trouble; it was a routine job! How the hell had there been a fire? How in Merlin’s name had Harry ended up dead? Had Snape not arrived in time? Had Voldemort attacked? Had Snape turned traitor – shown his true colors and handed the address over to the dark son-of-a-bitch lord?

‘I shouldn’t have given him the address,’ he moaned mentally, head collapsing into his hand. ‘I should have gone with him. Oh, Gods. Harry.”

“Good morning to you all.” Every whispered conversation fell silent as the grave voice of Albus Dumbledore overpowered them all. Every set of red eyes turned toward the ancient Headmaster, Sirius’ the last to do so, the comforting hand of Remus Lupin on his shoulder the only thing to provoke the action. “This is a most grievous situation for us to have awoken to.” Sirius held back a bitter snort at the man’s understatement. What right did he have to talk about Harry’s death? How dare he downplay it like some trivial event! “I am pleased to see that despite Mr. Potter’s unfortunate and untimely death, many of you are still putting your duties above your grief. As you know-.” Whatever words were about to leave Dumbledore’s mouth were cut off as the kitchen doors slammed open, to reveal a panting, out-of-breath Andromeda Black. At the sight of everyone staring, she gave a sheepish smile accompanied with a nervous chuckle.

“My daughter, you know…” She drew off, seeming to realize that this was not the time for a humorous excuse, and made her way hurriedly to the empty seat between Remus and Bill Weasley. Dumbledore gave her a pointed look over the top of his half-moon spectacles, as though trying to decide whether or not she would make another scene, before clearing his throat and continuing.

“As you know, Harry was our key to destroying Lord Voldemort.” Here, all but six flinched at the name, and Sirius’ fists clenched at how mediocre and pointless the Headmaster was making his godson sound. “I have spent the past four years training him to be the most powerful wizard to have ever existed. I cared for him, deeply so. To have lost him so tragically…” Dumbledore drew off, and Andromeda couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Same old Albus with his same old manipulation acting. She knew damn well why half of the people who were here were here, and it wasn’t because they had cared for the Boy Who Lived. As though determined to try and make others see the same, Fate seemed to send an impulse to Matilda Yern, a stout, short witch who looked more gruesome than Dolores Umbridge, and Andromeda watched with interest as she jumped up from her seat.

“What about the prophecy?” She exclaimed in a shrill voice. Everyone froze and turned to look at her, and Sirius felt his anger and magic give a sharp spark. “Who is going to destroy You-Know-Who now? Who is going to save us?” Instant outcries voicing the same opinions, and Andromeda’s silver eyes fell nervously on her cousin’s form, a feeling of dread instantly overtaking her. Oh, shit.

“SHUT UP!” Dead silence fell over the crowd for the third time that morning, but it did not last long as exclamations of shock filled the room as every glass on the table broke into thousands of shards. Every pair of eyes fell on the standing, raging Sirius Black. “What the hell is wrong with you people?” He bellowed, pining several with an icy, dangerous glare. “My godson is dead, and all you can fucking think about are yourselves!” Several looked down guiltily, though a few, like Dumbledore and Percy Weasley, stared at the animagus stubbornly. “You’ve made everything that was his your business; took everything from him! At least let him have his death without making it into something about you! At least give him that much!” Before anyone could say a word, Sirius turned and all but ran from the kitchen, the sound of the back door slamming signaling his escape from the house. Remus rose to go after him, but he was stopped as Albus’ piercing look.

“Don’t you walk out of this room, Remus. If Sirius is going to be immature, then let him.” Both the werewolf and Andromeda glared at the man’s words, but Remus, ever the submissive wolf, began to sit down resentfully. The witch reached out a placed a soothing hand on his arm, smiling as his golden eyes looked at her curiously.

“Don’t worry, I’ll go check on him,” she whispered, getting up from her seat just as Dumbledore was about to speak again. He sent her a warning glare.

“Andromeda-.”

“Watch me,” she shot over her shoulder, stocking off, a small smirk on her face, as she knew she had pissed him off. Now, to locate that troublesome cousin of hers…

She found him not to far away, swinging absently from a tree on a thick green vine that had formed from lack of care, and felt her heart break. She had known Sirius since they were children, and had always gotten along great, despite the three-year age difference. It had always been him and her against Bellatrix and Regulus in whatever game they had played, with Narcissa acting as mediator. There had never before been such a dejected, lost look on his handsome face, not even when he had been disgraced by the family and beaten by his father before running away to the Potters. And it hurt her to know that his suffering was quite needless.

“Sirius,” she said softly, so as not to startle the emotional wizard. The raven-haired head shot up, and his pained blue eyes locked with her sympathizing gray ones, and a small, humorless smile formed on his devilish face.

“’Lo, Andy,” he said in the same soft tone. He glanced back toward the tall manor before returning his gaze to her. “I suppose Albus sent you out here to berate my “childish behavior”, right?” Andromeda snorted and moved closer.

“The exact opposite, actually. He didn’t want me out here at all.” Sirius gave a dry chuckle. Was now a good time? “Sirius…” How much should she tell? Well, if it was more than Severus wanted him to know, than it was his fault. He was the one who was supposed to have stopped by the night before. She was brought back to the present as she realized Sirius was staring at her expectantly. Deep breath… let it out… bloody hell. “Harry isn’t dead.”

.T.

Crimson eyes went right to left, left to right, a hint of mirth within their crimson depths as they repeated the action for the fiftieth time. The man before him appeared to be an expert at stalking back and forth, and indeed, one at multitasking, for with every step he took, a colorful and creative curse would leave his mouth, with a deep scowl to accompany it. Despite his usual arrogance, or because of it, perhaps, Lord Voldemort found the anxious wizard highly amusing.

However, too much of a good thing, as it always was, could quickly ruin it, and he felt his patience with Severus Snape quickly waning as the Potions Master repeated a word he had already used several times.

“Severus,” said the powerful wizard warningly, tone slightly tired and exasperated. The vampire turned sharply and gave him a puzzled look, as though he had completely forgotten his Lord was in the same room. “Sit down before you give yourself a stroke, Severus.” Lord Voldemort simply arched an eyebrow as Severus offered him a sneer, not intimidated, and with a sigh, slowly (and quite reluctantly) sat in the chair of which the Lord indicated. Voldemort snorted at the strong look of discontent he was offered by his friend, and spoke again. “We need to discuss the little problem your secret love affair has caused us.”

Obsidian eyes immediately looked down at the words, and a flash of pain crossed Severus’ face. Having a conversation on his son was not exactly at the top of his “things to do” list. In fact, thinking of his son was not something he wanted to do at all. He could still recall the guarded look in the boy’s eyes when they had encountered one another in Villa Salvus; he knew it all too well. Ha- Potter did not trust him; he looked at him in the same manor in which Severus had looked at his father – with fear of pain.

“I would rather not talk about it, my Lord,” whispered the Vida softly, lifting his head. Voldemort tilted his head at him, and with a shrug, took a sip out of a teacup Severus had not noticed before.

“That’s too bad,” said the wizard easily. “Harry Potter, the Savior of the Wizarding World, the Boy Who Will Never Fucking Die, is currently resting in one of the most luxurious guest rooms in this castle. It is not something that normally happens, and not something that can be easily explained.”

“No one will question it,” Severus snapped, suddenly quite sour. “He looks nothing like the Harry Potter they knew.”

“True,” Voldemort allowed. “But it will certainly raise suspicion if he goes around, referring to me as the ‘Dark Lord’ and trying to kill me. Severus,” he leaned forward now, a concerned glint in his eyes, and tone as serious as it had ever been. “If he is to stay here, there are several things in which he needs to understand, lest he do something wrong and offend someone.” Severus looked down once more.

“Do what you want with him,” he said finally, not seeing his lord’s disbelieving look. “I do not care.”

Lord Voldemort’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he sat back, hands folded across his lap, suddenly looking thoughtful.

“If that is the case,” he began slowly. “If you honestly don’t care for him, I suppose I could look after him.” Voldemort raised his eyes now, a small, mischievous smirk on his face. “He is quite beautiful.” Severus looked up sharply. “I could just imagine how he would look as I took him. Writhing beneath me… breathtaking. Of course, he would not turn willingly, but he would eventually break…” He drew off hopefully, and Severus was not to disappoint.

“You will not touch a hair on his head!” Roared the vampire, jumping up from his seat. Voldemort just barely caught the yellow flash in his eyes before it disappeared. “If you even attempt to touch him, I will remind you exactly why it was you recruited me in the first place!” Voldemort’s smile grew as Severus began to calm down.

“You do care,” he said softly, and the other froze, realizing he had just walked right into a trap. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Severus?” He demanded. “Why are you doing this to Harry? To your son?”

Because I don’t deserve him…

“I do not want to talk about it,” he repeated. Voldemort frowned, obviously not prepared to accept the excuse.

“You know Harry Potter as well as I do, Severus. You will crush him, not me,” he warned. Severus opened his mouth to retort, but was cut off by a sharp rap on the study door. Voldemort had just enough time to put on his glamour before the door opened, and the blonde head of Narcissa Malfoy poked in.

“My apologies, my Lord,” said the sophisticated witch quickly, inclining her head in respect, allowing Severus just a brief glimpse of the bruise right below her eye. “But Lu – my husband desires to speak with you. He claims it to be of dire importance.”

“Inform his that I will be with him in a moment,” said the lord kindly, having always had a soft spot for members of the Black family. Narcissa gave another nod, and was gone without lifting her head again. The second the door clicked shut, Severus whirled on Voldemort, who gave a sad sigh.

“I know,” was all he said on the subject. “Severus, please, talk to your son. He must understand not only the concept of ourselves, but of Mors Amor in its entirety. It’s high time it happened, son or not.” His tone held no room for arguments as he waved his hand to banish his cup. He rose to head for the door, when Severus stopped him, a nervous hitch in his voice.

“My Lord…those things you said… they were just to get a rise, were they not?” Voldemort shot him a small smile over his shoulder.

“I would never rape a child, Severus,” he said seriously. “Nor would I break anyone who held as much spirit as he does.” He twisted the door handle, and just before stepping out, finished his response, his smile growing. “But I do find him to be highly attractive.”

.T.

“The Minister has already given his consent to let us use Godric’s Hollow for the funeral, and Harry’s body will be buried alongside those of his parents…” Remus sighed and closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block out Dumbledore’s words. Given the Minister’s consent? Ridiculous! The Potters had founded Godric’s Hollow over three hundred years ago – it would be blasphemy for a Potter’s funeral to be held anywhere else – especially Harry’s! The werewolf’s heart clenched even tighter as an image of the raven-haired, smiling emerald-eyed boy flashed through his mind. Harry…

“Alright there, Remus?” Asked a soft, kind voice from beside him. One golden eye opened to view the speaker, and he relaxed at the sight of the brown-eyed, red-haired eldest Weasley child.

Remus had gotten to know Bill during these meetings. He knew that, despite the fact that he was a curse-breaker, Bill desperately wanted to do something with defensive magic, as in going into Law Enforcement or becoming an Auror. He knew of his undying love for his little and only sister, Ginny, and how he sneered at the Wizarding Community’s prejudice on half-breeds and the like. He was truly an interesting young man, and Remus still flinched at the missed opportunity of acquainting himself with him whilst at Hogwarts, even though he had been a seventh year and Bill a first.

“I’ll be alright,” he assured the concerned younger wizard with a whisper, shooting a glance toward the back exit. “They’ve been out there a while.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” soothed Bill, patting him on the arm with a smile. Remus returned it, though his eyes still held the concerned glint. Finally, Dumbledore rose, raising his arms in signal for them to do the same, which all but Remus and Bill did.

"Let us go home now and hold our children, and be thankful to Mr. Potter for all that he has done for us. Tomorrow will be a heavy day on all of our hearts." Instant noise broke out the second the Headmaster finished, and Remus was annoyed at how quickly the elderly wizard left. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a concerned looking Andromeda lead in her dazed cousin, just as Nicholas Hames' voice overwhelmed the rest of the chatter.

"Be thankful? He's bloody dead, and the rest of us are stuck here to deal with that pathetic excuse for a wizard alone!" Several other people voiced their agreement, and though Sirius' grip on his wand tightened, the werewolf noticed that the ex-convicts face remained impassive.

"Told you they were fine." Remus' attention was instantly drawn back to Bill, and he blushed at the look the younger man was giving him. This had obviously not been the first time those words had been spoken. He watched as Bill rose from his chair, a small smile on both of their faces. "I should go and check on Ginny and the others. Mum's been too emotional to keep an eye on the whole lot, and with Dad doing Order business and all... well..." Remus simply gave a nod of understanding.

"I'll see you later, Bill," he replied. The red-haired wizard gave him one more smile and then turned to leave, offering the still-dazed Sirius his condolences on his way out. Once the only people left in the room were Andromeda, the animagus, and himself, Remus shot up from his seat, cast silencing spells on the door, and rounded on his friends.

"What's going on?"

.T.

Though small in size compared to most manors, the Gahore House was far from being referred to as "quaint". It was old, of course, and looked it, with cracking walls and vines working their way up the stone sides. However, it simply offered a more welcome feeling than its older, darker cousins. Indeed, every time Draco laid eyes on it, he could not help but wish he had grown up here instead of within the confines of Malfoy Manor.

With a small grunt, the blonde Malfoy heir shifted his trunk handle from one hand to the next, and for the fiftieth time cursed the Zabini family for not having their home connected to the Floo system. He understood Mr. Zabini's fear (how outrageous though it was) of unannounced searches and the like, the nearest place to Floo to was five miles away, and Lucius had not been so kind as to place a 'Feather Weight' charm on his son's extremely heavy trunk.

He would only be staying a few days, but it was always a smart idea to leave his Hogwarts things with Blaise, as his father did not like to see him tout around heavy cargo in public.

'Not exactly sure why he lets me do this, then,' thought Draco dryly as he finally reached the pathway to the small mansion. His sides ached and screamed in protest as he shifted grips once again, and his breath was coming out in short pants not two steps up the hill. He had hoped to be able to hide the effects of his punishment from the other wizard, but knew now that that was just not going to be the case, and Blaise would be most infuriated when he opened the door to great him.

Contrary to the popular belief within Hogwarts, it had been Blaise and Draco, not Draco and Pansy, who had been best friends since they were but children. Seeing as how he was older, Blaise had always taken it upon himself to look after Draco, even against Draco himself. When he had first been beaten by Lucius back after his first bad impression on Potter, it had taken every ounce of everything Draco had to keep his eleven-year-old idiot of a friend from going to Malfoy Manor and showing Lucius "just who the stronger wizard is". A small, pained smile formed on Draco's porcelain face at the memory; he had often wished that Blaise had been his brother instead of his best friend.

He approached the door with caution, mindful of what happened to the last moron who had simply ambled up and knocked. Mr. Zabini had a secret code in which visitors were to knock, and any who didn't do it correctly met a rather nast curse from the end of the man's wand, and ended up in St.. Mungo's for months on end. It was one of the reasons the aristocrat really wasn't looking forward to the second war that would, no doubt, follow Lord Voldemort's return; Draco did not want to suffer the same fate.

Knock knock...knockknockknockknock...knock knock

He stepped back quickly, and shifted a little to the side, in case the code had been changed. However, not two seconds later, the door flew open, and the familiar dark-haired head of Blaise Zabini stuck out.

Though it had only been three weeks since he had seen him, Draco could not help but wonder how Blaise had changed. His mocha skin was slightly darker, and he had cut his hair ear-length, but he had written about that...

It was his eyes.

Blaise's eyes were filled with an intense flame of the likes of which he had never before seen - not even in Lucius' grey pools. He could practically feel himself burning as the obsidian orbs traveled up and down his form, and offered a nervous smile as a frown formed on the other boy's face.

"Come on," beckoned Blaise finally, sighing as he stepped away from the door to allow entry. Draco relaxed and did as directed, not being able to hold back a wince and sharp intake of breath as he took the elevated step.

"I have potions upstairs," said the older Slytherin softly as he closed the door.

"Thanks," he replied in the same tone, turning to meet his gaze. Blaise cocked an elegant eyebrow.

"The paper? Potter?" Draco looked down and gave a small nod. "Bastard."

"I believe my grandparents were married, actually," said the younger wizard lightly, attempting to make a joke. Blaise simply rolled his eyes and started up the stairs.

"Mum's not home. I'll go get the potion and you lay down on the couch." There was no room for argument, and Draco reluctantly obeyed. Whilst it was true that he and Blaise had been friends, Draco had not been a favorite of Mrs. Zabini's since his father had denounced Lord Voldemort to save himself from Azkaban. Though Blaise scoffed at her behavior, it made the blonde highly uncomfortable to be in her presence.

"Lay down, Draco!" The blonde sent a glare to the ceiling above him and slowly made his way to the living room, a sigh escaping his rosy lips and a grimace crossing his face as he eased himself onto the soft material and leaned back. This situation had become so routine to the two wizards that they just said things automatically – he could probably continue to stand at the foot of the stairs without Blaise being any the wiser. He must have dosed off, for the next thing he knew, Blaise was leaning over him, pitch-black eyes filled with concern. Draco blinked, noticed the small vial the older Slytherin held in his hand, and instantly began to push himself up.

“You are completely out of it,” said Blaise softly as he handed him the potion. “It’s never been this bad before.” Draco nodded his agreement, sniffing the concoction and wrinkling his nose at the smell.

“It was the whole Potter ordeal – blach!” It took every ounce of self-control the Malfoy heir possessed not to vomit up the purple fluid all over Mrs. Zabini’s rugs. “Bloody hell, Blaise, that’s worse than the last one!” The other simply shrugged as he took the empty vial back.

“Yes, well, you’ve never had the Cruciatus used on you before, have you? I had to add a couple of ingredients.” Draco frowned. “Better, though, eh? I’m going to kill that bastard you refer to as ‘Father’”

“It’s Lucius,” corrected the blonde automatically, the pains of his body slowly disappearing. “ And yes, it’s better. However, I don’t appreciate being treated as a guanine pig, Blaise Zabini.”

“Of course not!” Shouted Blaise, sounding appalled. “You make a much better ferret.” Draco grew red as the taller boy shot him a teasing smirk, but his feeling of anger instantly dissipated as he caught sight of The Daily Prophet on the side table. Blaise followed his gaze, sobering as he, too, saw the paper.

“It’s true, then?” Asked Draco softly. “Potter’s really…dead?” Blaise nodded sadly, snatching up the Prophet.

“The funeral’s tomorrow,” he informed in a whisper. “Open to Hogwarts students and alumni.” Draco cocked an eyebrow.

“Tomorrow? That’s a bit…soon, isn’t it?” Again, Blaise shrugged.

“They need to get it hurried up with. Don’t want ‘Big bad Voldemort’ to come and ruin it for them.” Draco’s eyes rolled, and a mischievous glint formed in their silver pools. “Open to us then, you say?”

Blaise simply chuckled.

.T.

Harry sat quite uncomfortably on a large, silk sheet covered bed, knees drawn up to his chin, midnight blue eyes staring at the far wall before him. Off to his side, a great glass window stood proudly, taunting him with a view of the outside, knowing full well he could not go out into it.

At least the stunner had been taken off.

Today was definitely not one of his better days.

All of his life, all Harry had desired was the love of a parent. Believing his to be dead, it wasn’t something he missed or anything. But now that he had one - a father, of all things, dangling before him, just out of his reach with no intention of moving just a step forward, it… well, it hurt.

It wasn’t something he was used to feeling.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath as the sun began its fall behind the trees, and he felt once again the tears prickling behind his eyes.

“He is James’ son! I did not want a child.”

“Damn it!” A fine linen pillow, obviously highly expensive, went flying into the far wall, hitting the ground with a soft thud, and the raven-haired vampire threw himself back onto the remainder. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!” The tears escaped now, and Harry let them go. No one was here to witness them, no one to see him crack. It was not expected of him. He was the Gryffindor ‘Golden Boy’ – he couldn’t show anything but happiness! Then why was he crying? Merlin, if Dumbledore were to see this…

“You are terribly emotional,” interrupted a drawing voice. Harry’s heart froze as his head shot up, blue eyes locking with black as he took in the majestic, cold, and sneering form of his father. His savior, his nightmare. His eyebrows furrowed as he studied the man he had thought he knew, searching for the one he hoped was there. “Go and fetch us some tea, Merelda, please.” A small, elderly woman he had not seen before bowed at Snape’s words, clear eyes landing briefly on him before she scurried out a door that had also managed to escape his attention. He turned his gaze back to Snape, who seemed to stand a little more rigid now that the two of them were alone.

“Such a condition is common among new-born Vidas, and one would expect it from you, with the circumstances.” Snape drew off, and Harry’s forehead crinkled. Was Snape… being nice? After what he had said in the hall? His head began to pound. This was all some increasingly horrific nightmare…

‘You play along with nightmares.’ Hermione’s voice from a conversation long ago echoed in his head. ‘Play with them, beat them, wake up, and get over it.’ 

“Why did you bring me here?” Ah, the ever over-used inquiry. Granted, it had never gotten answered, and the increasing feeling of betrayal was really beginning to eat away at him. “Is this all some sick, twisted plot Voldemort used to get me? What does he want this time? Get me to turn sides, or the good old fashioned ‘Murder the Boy Who Fucking Lived?” He snarled the last words, and prepared himself to reach for another pillow, cutting off Snape with another set of words as the man attempted to speak. “Well, you can just forget about it. People will be coming for me, and Dumbledore will have your heads on a platter.” The pillow left his hand and it flew toward his suddenly smirking father. It did not take Harry long to figure out why such an expression was on the man’s face, as the very next second, a gasp rang out the moment the pillow was in the air, and it froze inches from Snape’s face. Harry looked in the direction of the gasp, and found himself locking gazes with the old woman who had accompanied the vampire earlier. His limbs were more frozen than ice as she began to advance toward him, wand slowly rising in a threatening position.

“How dare you!” Screeched Merelda, and Harry barely contained a flinch. “How dare you utter the Dark Lord’s name within these sacred walls? How dare you threaten our beloved lords? That is a crime punishable by death!” Her wand grew closer, and as such, so did she. Harry’s mind was already falling into its protective state, sending messages to his arms to go up and protect his face, for his eyes to cringe close, and his legs to curl up under him to prevent breaking. The process was already beginning when Snape’s harsh voice cracked through the air like a whip upon a racehorse.

“Merelda! That is enough! Leave this room at once!” Dead silence followed, and Harry could feel the woman begin to take a few steps back, her bafflement overwhelming his senses painfully. Cautiously, he lifted his eyelids, watching in awe at the look of pure murder that adorned the face of his former professor; the look of an enraged vampire.

“Lord Severus, he has done the un-.” The adult Vida waved off anymore of Merelda’s words with a brisk movement of his hand, and Harry just barely caught a glimpse of his glittering white fangs.

“Leave.” The order left no room for argument, and Merelda seemed to know it. Shooting one last dark look at the younger vampire, her wand lowered, and she disappeared from the room in a brisk pace. With another wave of his hand, Snape sent the door slamming shut, and his obsidian eyes turned to bore into Harry’s midnight ones. He seemed to be searching for something, a glint of an unfamiliar emotion buried deep within the depths of his pools.

“Alright?” He inquired softly, cocking his head. Harry blinked, rather caught off guard with the sudden question. Snape was concerned.

“He is James’ son! I did not want a child.”

“Fine,” the raven-haired teenager bit out, the previous statement still a harsh blow. His eyes narrowed, and he quickly pulled himself from the fetal position he had been going into. “Just get out.” The concern from Snape’s eyes vanished instantly, replaced by their normal guarded, emotionless gleam, the infamous Slytherin Mask moving into place. Though he did not move from his position, his words left his mouth with a tone that made Harry believe him to be standing right beside him.

“And leave you to make a mistake like that one?” Snape jerked his head toward the door. “I think not. I am under orders to explain to you the point of Mors Amor.”

“Orders?”

“Why else would I be here?” Sneered the vampire, and Harry looked down instantly. It was a low blow, but it seemed that Harry was the only one who noticed, as Snape continued on. “I’ll give you the summarized version, as I know that neither of us wants to be in the company of the other for longer than necessary.”

“Mors Amor was founded by Voldemort not too long after the First War began. At first, it was simply a place for the families of fighting Death Eaters to live during the coarse of the war. However, casualties on both sides were high, and it soon became a permanent residence for many. It did not take long for several of those left behind to be orphaned children, who had no real benefactor to care for them. As I am sure Dumbledore,” Snape drew the word as though it were a vile toxin. “Has informed you, Lord Voldemort grew up in a similar environment. He took them in, and created an asylum in which they would live until adopted. As the war began to progress, he took children from the ‘Light’ side, as well. ” He stopped, staring at Harry, as though he was reading the emotions coursing through him. Indeed, Harry’s head began to pound from all this information. Lord Voldemort, the most despicable, murderous being on earth… being nice to orphans?

“What about…Dumbledore being ‘The Dark Lord’? How is that possible?” Snape sneered yet again.

“Not everything is black and white, Potter. In war, there is never a blameless man. Lord Voldemort killed witches and wizards, and so did Dumbledore.” He grinned at the stunned look on the boy’s face. “Yes, every awful thing you have ever heard from your beloved Headmaster is nothing he himself is not guilty of.”

“Voldemort killed thousands. Anyone who was in his way, anyone he viewed as a threat, met with the wrong end of his wand. Not even children were safe.” Dumbledore’s words rang in Harry’s ears, and his blood ran cold.

“You’re lying,” he declared instantly, tone holding uncertainty. Snape simply blinked at him.

“Am I?” He asked. Harry just stared at him, watching as Snape broke their gaze to glance down at his forearm. “It appears, Mr. Potter, that we will have to end this discussion here. I am needed elsewhere.” He turned to go, not even offering a farewell, before pausing. “I had almost forgotten.” The vampire reached into the pocket of his robes and withdrew a thick, rectangular-shaped object, tossing it onto the bed. “A gift from Nymphadora. She thought it… I believe her words were ‘would be handy’.” And with that, he walked out the door; the sound of the following click letting Harry know it had been magically locked from the outside. No escape.

“Bloody hell!” Harry flung his hand outward in frustration and pain, and the teapot Merelda had returned with before attempting to attack him, which had been sitting innocently on the coffee table, shattered into pieces. Harry didn’t even notice, falling backward onto the plump pillows beneath him. This was too much, far too much. Snape was his father, Lord Voldemort, a good guy, and Dumbledore, evil?

“My whole fucking world is falling apart,” he said in despair. “And the worst thing is, I didn’t even like it to begin with.” A long, forced breath escaped him, and he was surprised to find his eyes closing.

‘Falling asleep in my enemy’s house, on my enemy’s bed. Yeah, it’s falling apart.’ These were the last words Harry said to himself before finally drifting off.

The old, worn copy of ‘Guide for a New-born Vida’, lay forgotten at his feet.

.T.

Never before had she felt as empty as she did now.

Blood-shot brown eyes fell upon the lit-up, tilting-yet-sturdy, and highly unsanitary-at-first-glimpse Burrow as the wheels of the car grounded to a halt on the dirt driveway. It felt odd, that life should still be going on in normal fashion when it had ended for her best friend just the night before. Her heart clenched at the thought of Harry. Of his smiling face, of his charming laugh, of his innocent eyes that would look with hope upon a corrupted world. She held back a sob at the swarm of painful memories that assaulted her, though a few tears managed to make a course down her face. The passenger door was gently opened.

“Hermione?” Inquired the soft and concerned voice of her father. The brunette Gryffindor lifted her eyelids, peering at him blankly. He matched the look with one of sympathy. “Ready?” Slowly, the teen witch nodded, taking his proffered hand, vaguely realizing the other held the handle of her trunk. A rush of cool air flew harshly into her lithe body, and she shivered fiercely as the front door of the Burrow flew open.

“Hermione!” The sound of Ron’s anguished cry caused Hermione’s head to shoot up, and she had just barely a second to take a breath before she was swallowed into the redhead’s tight embrace. She could feel his body wrack with the same sobs that she herself had been fighting all day, and her arms tightened around him. The grief they felt over the loss of their friend connected them, and the tears that fell from their eyes combined as they fell onto the ground. Both tensed at the feeling of a hand on their shoulder.

“Let’s take this inside, eh?” Her father’s voice was just as soft as before. Ron pulled away, eyes just as red as Hermione’s, and he gave a quick nod. He turned, leading the duo toward the doorway, where the equally saddened, motherly Molly Weasley was waiting.

.T.

“Oh, Harry.”

The melodic, claming voice instantly caused the young vampire’s eyes to snap open, and his body to shoot up into a sitting position. However, nothing but the unfamiliar, yet known confines of his bedroom-turnedprison greeted his questioning gaze. Eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He had been sure that the voice he had heard belonged to Cedric, and yet, there was no sign of the deceased Hufflepuff anywhere. His entire body filled with disappointment, and he moved to sink back down.

“Harry.”

He swung around to face his left quickly, for fear he would miss him once again. Hopeful midnight orbs fell upon the soft mop of brown hair and the equally soft brown eyes of Cedric Diggory.

“Cedric,” he whispered in awe, moving to stand. However, his friend simply waved his hand in signal for him to remain where he was. With grace only the dead could posses, he moved forward, conjuring a comfortable, squishy chair with another wave of his hand, and moved it to the side of the bed Harry was at, instantly sitting in it.

“Quite a predicament you’ve gotten yourself in, Harry,” he said softly, forced humor in his voice. “Professor Snape being your father, you a vampire, and now you’re in Lord Voldemort’s house. You really are special, aren’t you?” Harry scowled as Cedric tried to make the situation light, not seeing the humor.

“I wish I had just stayed dead,” he said bitterly, laying back down, no longer wanting to see his former rival. “At least then I could be with a father that loves me. Snape wouldn’t give a damn if I keeled over and died right now. He’d probably sneer and have that servant inflame my body.” He wasn’t aware he was crying until a tear trickled into his mouth, its salty bitterness like candy on his tongue. He flinched away as he felt a soft hand stroke his hair, but it didn’t deter it.

“Your father hasn’t had it easy, Harry,” said Cedric softly. “He grew up with parents as loving as your relatives. He doesn’t know how to be a parent. He does love you, though, Harry. You just have to show him how to be a father.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Harry snarled back, still angry. “Besides, I probably won’t live long enough to do anything about it. Remember, Voldemort’s castle? The guy’s been trying to kill me for the past thirteen years. I’ll be dead again this time tomorrow” Cedric snorted.

“Everything has double meanings, Harry. Don’t forget.” The vampire rolled his eyes at the redundant phrase, a small yawn escaping his lips. “Just give it a chance. That’s all I ask.”

“Do I have choice?” He inquired, yawning again. Cedric’s hand stilled briefly before continuing its soothing ministrations.

“Always. Now, go to sleep. I can tell you’re tired.” Harry could not argue this as his eyes began to close. “It’s alright. I’m watching you.”

And he fell into sleep.

.T.

In another room, far down the hallway, Severus Snape slept on, his vampire senses dulled as they rested. For this reason, he did not feel the presence of the man above him, or, indeed, the feel of his fingertips upon his sallow skin.

“Oh, Sev,” whispered the man softly, tone filled with heart-wrenching grief. “Just love him.”

Though he shifted slightly at the beseech, Severus did not awaken. James quickly dropped a chaste kiss on his cold lips, and simply disappeared.

.T.

If one were to ask a group of Muggle-born witches and wizards what their first impression of the British Wizarding Community had been, they would all say the same thing; it was happy. You could walk into Diagon Alley and stare down its two-mile long path, and see nothing but a mass of smiling people clothed in decorative robes or stylish Muggle outfits, with just enough somber people so it would not be a scene out of ‘The Stepford Wives’.

Today, however, was different.

A mass of exactly two thousand witches and wizards were located in the small village of Godric’s Hollow on the brisk, overcast morning of July 20, not one smile on any of their faces. Though they were a crowded bunch, there was no pushing or shoving to get personal space; indeed, many were resting hands of comfort upon grieved shoulders of strangers. It was a fairly odd sight.

Of the two thousand present, only a select one hundred found themselves seated on uncomfortable metal Muggle chairs within Godric’s Hollow’s graveyard, fidgeting with their stiff black robes as their eyes lay on the speaker before them. A mass of redheads, accompanied with two brunettes and a large, shaggy black dog, took up the first two rows on the front right side, and glances of intense sympathy were sent in their direction every other minute.

“Harry Potter was beloved by all who knew him. He was young, innocent, caring, and at the same time, brave, bold, and mischievous. As we gather here today to put such a remarkable young man to rest beside his parents, questions run through our minds. Why did he die? Why did this happen to such a good person? Or, perhaps, we did he leave us?”

As Dumbledore stood on the white podium in front of the large crowd, rambling on and on with his honey-coated words, Ginny Weasley found herself paying little attention to her Headmaster. Her almond eyes rested instead upon the peaceful, plain white coffin resting on the ground before him, and an empty feeling quelled within her stomach as she studied it. That casket was empty – Harry was not within its dreadful confines. They were burying an empty casket for the sake of appearance.

And it made her sick.

“Death is not a cause for depression, but a cause for celebration. I once told Harry, when a dear friend of mine was dying, that to a great mind, death was just the next big adventure. Though we have lost our beloved savior, we must all keep in mind that he has moved onto another, better place.”

‘A place where he can be free from you and your bloody games,’ thought Ginny bitterly, looking up through her eyelashes to glare at the ancient wizard. ‘Bloody bastard. I could have saved him.’

She had loved Harry once. It had been his innocence that had captivated her when she had first met him. Growing up with a large family, of which four of the eight had seen and wore the effects of war, Ginny had not encountered such a naïve person before in her life. However, after Harry had rescued her from the Chamber of Secrets, her love had changed. She began to feel for him what she felt for her brothers, only… stronger… deeper.

“If the Weasleys and their guests would now stand and pay their respects.” Ginny rose slowly from her seat, quickly reaching out to steady the emotional Hermione, who was beside her, as she wobbled on her feet. Several whispers broke out amongst the crowd as the group of twelve made their way toward the coffin, and Ginny lightly pushed her fellow Gryffindor next to Ron, knowing they would want to say their good-byes together. More whispers broke out as Sirius gave the coffin a small lick, and Remus a light nod, though they fell silent when her sobbing mother collapsed on top of the wooden box, watching with wide-eyes as Bill and her father soothed her away. Percy and Charlie passed by in the same manner as Remus, and the twins placed what looked like a torn up piece of parchment, anchored with a small rose, on the lid. When it came time for Ron and Hermione to go up, Ginny stood back a few paces to give them space.

Ron stared with forlorn cerulean orbs as Hermione dropped to her knees, a fresh wave of tears coursing down her face. The whispers returned as the brunette laid her check upon the cool white finish, stroking the lid with care.

“I love you, Harry,” she chocked out softly. Ginny’s heart broke for her friend as Hermione laid a gentle kiss on the coffin and stood, resting a hand on Ron’s arm. Her brother slowly bent down, lightly brushing his hand over the coffin before setting his rose carefully upon it. The two survivors of the Golden Trio stepped into the line formed by the rest of the Weasley Clan, leaving Ginny all alone.

The only daughter of Molly and Arthur moved forward cautiously, mindful that what she was doing would cause much unrest among the rest of those present, her family included. But she had planned this all out, and knew that if no one else, Harry would see the sense behind it. She slipped her hand into her robe pocket as she, too, knelt beside the casket.

She said nothing, simply staring, simply waiting. Her mother gave a few indiscreet coughs to get her attention, but Ginny paid them little mind. Finally, she slowly withdrew the porcelain black rose from her pocket, eyeing the small, glass emerald snake wrapped around it, thanking Merlin Bill had taught her the incantation last year. She pressed her lips to one of the smooth, black petals, and set it with its living counterparts.

“I wish I had saved you,” she said, softly enough that no one could here. And then she stood up and moved to stand on the opposite side of Hermione, ignoring the shocked looks from her family. Hermione gave her a small smile.

“That was thoughtful of you.” Ginny simply quirked her lips slightly in response as Dumbledore moved up to speak again.

“Now, please form a single-file line if you wish to pay your respects and your condolences to those standing here. I will now be answering questions from the press at this time.”

Chaos followed the Headmaster’s words. People raced to be the first to the coffin, and Ginny found herself shaking hands of people she had never seen before, and accepting a multitude of insincere apologies for Harry’s death. She shook hands with many of her schoolmates, many of whom she had never spoken with before today, and was quickly becoming annoyed with the Headmaster’s endless, sugarcoated answers to fired-off questions from reporters.

“Dumbledore! Dumbledore! What will happen to the money left in the Potter vaults now that Mr. Potter is gone?” Ginny found her unused fist clenching as she shook hands with Mrs. Longbottom. Of all the nerve…

“Donated to charity per the instructions of Mr. and Mrs. Potter.”

“Dumbledore, what of Mr. Potter’s personal effects?” She shook hands with a sobbing Lavender Brown.

“That will be decided at a later time.”

“Mr. Dumbledore…Albus. What is to become of the bodies of the Dursleys?” Ginny roughly dropped the hand of Mrs. Thomas at the sound of Rita Skeeter’s voice, turning about to face the reporter and her Headmaster.

“Though it is still being debated, I believe Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, along with their son, will be buried in Godric’s Hollow in a Muggle ceremony, beside Mrs. Dursley’s sister.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to find any less deserving Muggles anywhere else on the planet,” came the snide, sneering voice of Draco Malfoy. Ginny whirled around to see the blonde Slytherin along with another boy – Blaise Zabini, if she recalled correctly – striding toward them.

“What are you doing here, Ferret?” Growled Ron, taking a step forward, only to be held back by Hermione’s hand on his arm. Their schoolmate shrugged.

“Open funeral to Hogwarts students and staff, etc., etc.” The two stopped a mere few inches from colliding into them, and Ginny’s brown eyes locked with Malfoy’s steely gray as the aristocratic teen took her hand in his, leaning to brush his lips against it. She was surprised Ron did not voice a protest… perhaps Hermione had a hold on him.

“My sincerest condolences for your loss, Ms. Weasley,” he said softly. “I may never have liked Potter, but I respected him a great deal. His death is not light on me.” He lifted himself, and Ginny blinked rapidly. Malfoy…being polite? Apologizing? Kind?

“Th-thank you,” she finally managed to reply. Malfoy smirked at her as Rita moved forward with impatience.

“What was that you were saying, Mr. Malfoy? About the Dursleys?” Malfoy’s smirk grew as he looked away from Ginny and toward the older witch.

“Everyone knows Potter’s relatives abused him,” he said simply. Everyone within the vicinity froze, and more than a few gasps escaped at the accusation. “Supposedly he was forced to live in a cupboard until he received his Hogwarts letter. It’s even been said that his uncle would beat him if he burnt the…what was it, Blaise?” Ginny saw the tall black Slytherin shake his head with amusement. “Bacon, I believe.” Rita Skeeter was quickly jotting all of this down with her Quick-Quotes quill, eyes wide as she thought of what a lovely story this would make in The Daily Prophet. From next to her, Ginny could feel Hermione shaking slightly, and she could see that Ron’s face had paled stark-white.

“Those are unfounded rumors, Mr. Malfoy.” The youngest Weasley was taken aback by the ice in Dumbledore’s tone, having never been in presence of his anger before. “I assure you that Mr. Potter never received care of that sort whilst he lived with his relatives.”

“Of course, Headmaster.” The sarcasm in Malfoy’s voice was evident for everyone, including Rita, who smiled coyly at the Slytherin Prince.

“We’ll get in touch later, you and I, and discuss these accusations further.” The witch did not even wait for a reply before taking off to badger some poor other soul. When she was out of hearing range, Dumbledore turned his cool eyes onto his student. Though his words were soft, Ginny, being so close, could hear every bit of it.

“Where are you getting your information, Mr. Malfoy?” He hissed, causing Ginny’s brow to furrow. Did not the Headmaster just claim the words to be rumors? She barely caught sight of a small flinch from Malfoy before his smirk was back in place.

“Like you said, Headmaster. They are simply unfounded rumors.” He turned toward the Weasleys, shaking his head as Ron once again turned red. “Ms. Weasley, again, my condolences.” He bowed, and then with a jerk of his head, signaled for Zabini to leave. Dumbledore snorted as the two Slytherins walked away, and turned to leave as well, muttering something about “Severus” and “students”. Her brothers and parents took his lead, Ron saying curses just under his breath that would have gotten him slaughtered if their mum had heard him. Hermione, however, did not move, staring after their retreating schoolmates with horrified eyes as Remus approached them.

“Hermione?” Ginny inquired, placing a hand upon her friend’s shoulder.

“Oh, God. Harry,” whispered the broken girl. Ginny froze as Remus wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulders.

“Come on, Hermione,” he said kindly, Sirius whining in sympathy. Ginny watched them walk away, suddenly unable to breathe.

Dear God, it was true…

.T.

Harry awoke to find himself alone within Voldemort’s guest room, no sign of Cedric anywhere. He was slightly disappointed that the ghost had left. Very carefully, the raven-haired vampire rose into a sitting position, midnight eyes scanning the room he was in curiously. Now that it was light, he could see that it truly wasn’t as gloomy as he had thought it to be.

‘”Just give it a chance, Harry.”’ Cedric’s words from the night before came flying back to him. The last thing he wanted to do was give Sna…his father and Lord Voldemort an opportunity to win his loyalty. But Cedric did have his points. His father growing up with a childhood similar to his own, and the whole “Dumbledore being a Dark Lord” thing. Chance it, chance it…

Did he really have any other choice?

He stood up cautiously, not truly testing his limbs, and though he wobbled a bit, found himself able to move with little difficulty. Sensing the activity, his stomach decided to join in, and gave a low rumble of impatient hunger. Harry scowled. Like he knew where the bloody kitchen was. His stomach gave another rumble, more loudly this time, and the teen sighed.

He made his way carefully to the door and turned the handle gently, surprised when it opened with little problem. Obviously, it had been decided he wouldn’t flee. He stuck his head out, only to see a vast, empty hallway with several turns greeting him. His stomach gave yet another rumble, and he stepped out.

Trying to find his way around was worse than trying to figure out the magical puzzle he and Hermione had once worked on together (it had kept resetting and changing its mind, making it so that it took a week to be finished). Several turns lead to doorways identical to that of his room, whilst others simply lead to dead-end walls. Whoever designed this…castle, had made certain that only those who lived within it knew how to find their way about. Harry began to shiver as he considered returning to his room. But there was no knowing how long it would take for someone to come up to check on him. After all, he had infuriated the servant and annoyed his father…he doubted anyone else knew of his presence.

Finally, the young, cold, and very hungry Vida stumbled across a double-door entryway. Memories of the Hogwarts kitchen, which also had double-doors, flooded through his mind. Lord Voldemort, hopefully, had gotten inspiration from the school and had put his kitchen in the same spot. Slowly and carefully, mindful that anything could be in there, he pushed the doors open.

And found himself frozen as he locked gazed with the crimson eyes of Lord Voldemort and the shocked black of his father.

TBC

Looooong. The funeral scene is one of the main reasons this chapter took so long, as well as the one between Harry and Severus. The characters just wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do, and wouldn’t tell me why! –growls- If I didn’t need them, I would fire them. I liked the chapter, though. I always wanted the Wizarding World to find out about Harry’s abuse/neglect (as you please).

Next Chapter: Severus FINALLY goes dad! Yay! Harry explores Mors Amor, and sees the destructiveness of his Headmasters acts. And a new name for our beloved little vampire, as well as the fact that he really, really should have skimmed the book Sev threw at him. More Draco and Ginny angst, as well, with some Hermione blended in. 

Severus and Sirius also get letters from their beloved, deceased Marauder. –beams- Fun.

Points: Yes, Sirius and Andromeda told Remus that Harry is still alive (hence his actions at the funeral), and no, Andromeda told neither of them of Severus being Harry’s father. That comes LATER.

Also, the slash between Harry and Voldemort will have to develop slowly lest it be corny (blach). There’s plenty of time for that to happen, and plenty of things in the meantime to keep you from getting bored. Don’t worry about it. 

And no, Harry doesn’t know the Dursleys are dead. Soon, though, soon. Next chapter, maybe? Hehe.

Alright, the writers-block for Lupus Parvulus and My Lord Potter formed by the Half-Blood Prince has officially dissipated, and my brain is working over-drive. So I must leave you until they update (Adoptif Fils, too. I forgot I had that posted). Until then, review! I love your reviews!

Later

-Brit


	5. Fathers and Sons

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Lord Voldemort, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. (Those books would not be fit for the eyes of a child if I did –snicker-) To elaborate further, I also do not intend this fanfiction to be any form of slander, nor do I make profit from it. (May I continue on with my story now? –glare-)

Notes: See? Faster update (kinda). I’m trying here, folks. Besides, the wait is worth it, no? You’ll love this chapter, I promise!

To Reviewers: -sends each of you to the Harry Potter universe- I love you all so much. Your support really keeps me going with this story. I hope you love this chapter just as much as the last four. –hugs all-

To Readers: Obviously, the newspaper is not working. Next, I shall take a leaf out of Tommy’s book, and try Crucio. Get it? Got it? Good! –beams-

Warnings: Implied slash, language, and slight mentions of child abuse. Probably my lightest chapter yet.

Chapter Five

Lord Voldemort sighed quietly as he watched his follower and friend sit silently before him. The two powerful wizards had been like this for several hours, when the frazzled vampire had knocked on the study door and entered without permission in the wee hours of the morning. Severus had not said one word to explain his sudden appearance, and Voldemort did not press for one. The Potions Master had enough on his plate as it was… as did he.

Lucius Malfoy had been his first and most loyal Death Eater. They had started out sharing the same ideals, and the same methods for obtaining those goals. But as the First War escalated, the blonde aristocratic wizard began to change. He pressed for harsher attacks, ruthless torture on prisoners, and, indeed, less prisoners taken to begin with. Lord Voldemort was quickly beginning to lose his friend to the depths of greed for power. And now…

“What are you thinking about?” He was snapped away from his dark, brooding thoughts at the sound of Severus’ voice. Reluctantly, he pushed back images and thoughts of the Malfoy patriarch as a wry smile formed on his face, crimson eyes locking firmly with obsidian.

“I could ask you the same,” he said dryly, smile growing as the Slytherin Head looked down. “You’ve been here for the past three hours, not said a word, and now you want to know what I’m thinking?”

“Is it about Lucius?” Demanded the raven-haired man stubbornly, head shooting back up.

“Is it about your son?” The lord shot back, eyes narrowing a bit as the other wizard once again looked down. A sigh escaped both of their lips simultaneously at the subject, and Lord Voldemort felt his nerves growing thin. This had gone on long enough.

“I’ve honestly had enough of this game, Severus,” he said softly, an edge to his youthful voice. The Potions Master tensed slightly as he barreled on. “Have you any idea what you could be doing to that boy? Think about it! Not only had he just became a creature that most in the world fear, and not only has he suddenly come back from the dead because of some stupid form of ‘rebirth’, but he has just found out that he has another parent!” Severus flinched as the last words were all but hissed out. “He has thought his parents dead for the last fourteen years! He has lived with people that could care less if he were breathing or not! You, of all people, should know exactly what that feels like!” Severus opened his mouth to speak, but Lord Voldemort quickly cut him off. “And I swear of Merlin’s name, if you say ‘I don’t care about him’ I will strike you down right here and now, because I know you do.”

A long moment of silence followed, one that seemed to last for years upon years, instead of just seconds. Severus found it slightly ironic that the man who had been trying to kill his son for the past decade and a half was now telling him to consider his feelings.

“I suppose…” he began, but was instantly interrupted as the door to the study crept open, and the midnight blue eyes of his son widened as they fell upon the occupants of the room. He seemed just as surprised to see them as they were to see him… Severus was certain he had locked that door.

Lord Voldemort studied the boy before them with a critical, though very appreciative eye. Harry Potter had always contained an exotic aura, with his messy raven locks and stunning emerald eyes, but now, he was beyond enthralling. His face had narrowed, ridding itself of the baby fat it had once held, and was now more mature and refined. His hair had smoothed and lengthened, and his eyes were now the color of the rare Hope Diamond. Lord Voldemort had always found the appearance of a Vida Vampire captivating, and this time was no different.

“What are you doing out of your room?” Voldemort forced himself not to roll his eyes at Severus’ words, in which the man was obviously trying to keep out any biting tone. He watched as Potter looked down at his feet, which the lord realized were bare, to hide his embarrassment.

“I was hungry,” said the teen softly. “And it’s not like you locked the door or anything.” Voldemort smirked as he felt Severus’ temper rise. Oh, yes. Harry Potter was definitely a Snape, of that there was little doubt.

“You could have called for Merelda,” snapped Severus, annoyed. The younger vampire looked back up, eyes flashing defiantly, and Voldemort smirked a little.

“And of course I know how to do that,” he sneered sarcastically. The supposed dark lord could feel Severus anger growing, and quickly threw in a compromise before anything could get horribly out of hand.

“Your father was just leaving,” he said quickly, resulting in two pairs of dark eyes falling on him, both seemingly shocked that he had spoken at all. “He could show you where the kitchen is on the way to wherever it is he is going, can’t you, Severus?” He stood, a sign of dismissal, leaving no room for arguments. The Potions Master sat there for a moment, dumbfounded, before he slowly stood, sending a glare in Voldemort’s direction.

“Come on, Potter,” he growled, pushing past the boy to exit the room. The teen, however, hesitated, continuing to stare at Voldemort. The elder wizard held his gaze, grinning slightly when the vampire finally looked down.

“Potter!” Severus was impatient, and Potter quickly backed out the door, shutting it softly behind him.

Lord Voldemort relaxed as it latched shut, and found himself finally alone to contemplate his thoughts.

He moved toward his overly-large window, a fond smile growing on his face at the sight of the great village below him, and the people scurrying about. His smile quickly disappeared, however, as he realized this entire place could easily be destroyed in the upcoming war. Dumbledore was ruthless – he would spare nothing if he thought it dangerous to his cause…

(You are worried.) The smile returned to Voldemort’s face at the soft hissing of Nagini, and he turned to look down at the giant green snake. Golden eyes lifted to look up at him, and he could swear there was a frown on her face.

(There are a lot of thingsssss to be worried about, Nagini,) he replied, looking back out the window. (There issss a war approaching, and they can never be sssssomething to look forward to.)

(I sssssee,) replied the she-snake, curling around his foot and resting her head on his toes. He knew she wished to say something more, and waited patiently for her to do so. (You did not tell Ssseverussss about the blonde one,) she finally accused. Ahhh, there it was.

(I did not want to worry him. He hassss a sssson to think about at the moment. Besssidesss, we do not know if there isss truly an uprisssing.) Nagini gave a little hiss that sounded oddly similar to a snort.

(Your inssstinctsss tell you that there isss. You sssshould lisssten to them.) Voldemort did not respond, far from being in the mood to argue with the large reptile. Seeing this, Nagini changed subjects. (Ssseverusss’ hatchling isss quite powerful. But I ssssense a dark passsst with him.) Voldemort looked down at her, an eyebrow quirked curiously. (He remindsssss me a lot of you.)

Voldemort returned his gaze to the window, sighing as he once again studied the lands of Mors Amor.

(That isss what I fear.)

(You had better find out about the mutiny, Tom.) Nagini warned, and Lord Voldemort sighed.

(I know.)

.T.

Boy Who Lived Laid To Rest, But New Questions Arise. Was Harry Potter, World Savior, Abused?

Her eyes were filled with tears that would not release as she clutched The Daily Prophet within her hand. She had been stunned and hurt when she had seen the headline, and though she had tried, she could not make it past the second paragraph of the two-page article. Rita Skeeter had gone into horrifying, twisted detail on Harry’s life from the time he was left on the Dursleys doorstep to his death just three days ago. She had interviewed everyone possible she thought might have come in contact with him during that time, from Draco Malfoy to some woman named Arabella Figg. She had even managed to hit up Cho Chang (who had been too tearful to form more than one sentence), and Katie Bell from the Quidditch Team.

Hermione finally let the magical paper fall from her grasp, watching with little interest as it fluttered to the floor of Ginny’s room. It couldn’t possibly be true. Harry would never have kept such a thing from her…

Even as she told herself this, she knew it to be false. Harry was the most private person she knew. He would go out of his way to keep her and Ron from realizing he didn’t feel good, or that his scar was beginning to hurt. He hated attention, and he despised pity, which her more often than not confused with sympathy and concern. If the Dursleys had locked him in a cupboard, or beat him for burning breakfast and back talking, Harry would give his life to keep anyone from finding out.

Because he did not want to come across as some helpless little boy who was supposed to destroy an infamous dark wizard who couldn’t even stand up to three bullying Muggles. The tears behind her eyes quickly grew in number, and a solitary crystal-like drop traveled slowly down her porcelain face.

She had loved Harry like a brother. At the beginning of the seven years at Hogwarts, Harry had never joined the others in poking fun at her. In fact, it seemed as though he went out of his way to be kind to her, as though out of understanding sympathy. Granted, it had not been until after the troll accident that he and she, along with Ron, became friends, as Harry could not find it within himself to trust her. However, that had been alright, as she had not exactly found it easy to trust him, either.

But four years had changed all of that. Hermione had begun to feel closer to Harry than she had with anyone else, even Ron. Except for their second year, she had always been with him in his adventures, working with him, protecting him. They had shared secrets with one another that the eldest of their little trio didn’t even have wind of. During the course of their third and fourth year, he would sneak to the girls dormitory whenever he had a nightmare, seeking comfort from the horrifying images he had witnessed, from Sirius Black ‘betraying’ his parents to Voldemort, to odd, strange dreams concerning the Dark Lord being resurrected (which had proven themselves vision-like in the end). The other girls had never questioned it, simply assuming that Harry and she were dating. The shy, easily embarrassed raven-haired teen had always hated that.

Another tear made its pilgrimage down her finely formed face at the thought of her best friend as a soft knock sounded at the door.

“Hermione? Are you in there?” The brunette’s head shot up at the sound of Ron’s voice, her hand quickly moving to wipe away the tears and remove any evidence of them having been there as the door creaked open. Pale blue irises locked with her brown ones, and the former quickly filled with sympathy for her as the lanky redhead strode slowly forward. In hopes of avoiding an awkward situation, Hermione rose to her feet to greet him.

“How are you doing?” She inquired softly, taking his hands in hers. Ron gave a small, forced chuckle, his eyes clearly reflecting that he felt anything but happy.

“As well as can be, I suppose,” he replied in the same tone. He studied her face a moment, as though contemplating, before he spoke again. “And you? Not to be rude or inconsiderate, but you look as though you’ve walked through Hell and back, and saw all of its horrors both times.” Now it was Hermione’s turn to feign laughter. She released his hands and moved back toward the bed.

“Is that any different from what’s actually going on?” She took her seat once more on the soft mattress, looking up at her last remaining best friend. He gave her a soft smile, though it wilted as his eyes focused on something behind her. Hermione’s heart froze. She had forgotten about The Daily Prophet.

“What is this?” Demanded the fiery-tempered wizard, snatching up the paper before Hermione had a chance to grasp it. “You weren’t reading this… pack of lies, were you?” Hermione frowned slightly at his tone.

“As a matter of fact, I was,” she said defiantly. Her temper instantly died down, however, at the hurt look on Ron’s face as he eyed the paper. He missed Harry just as much as she did; there was no doubt he was also just as horrifiedat the accusations set against the Dursleys, and what they entailed.

“Malfoy started this,” hissed Ron, spiting out the surname of their schoolmate as though it were one of Snape’s vile potions. “These are rumors agreed upon by people who want fame!” Hermione blanched at his harsh words as Ron tossed the paper back onto the bed, moving to the window of his baby sister’s room.

“Ron,” whispered the witch, bracing herself for a snap. When it didn’t come, she determined it safe to continue. “Didn’t you tell me that you, Fred, and George once rescued Harry from his bedroom? A bedroom that had bars on the windows, a door that was locked from the outside, and a cat-flap under which the Dursleys could slide food?” Ron seemed to stiffen at the reminder. He turned toward her, face impassive.

“That only happened once, and Harry said it was just because the Dursleys were scared he would do magic on them, seeing as they didn’t know about Dobby and all.” He lifted his eyes confidently, though there was a slight tremble in his frame. “Besides, Dumbledore wouldn’t leave Harry someplace he was getting abused.. You saw how much he cared for him. It’s just… no, it wouldn’t happen. Malfoy just needed to get his last dig at Harry before they laid him to rest.” Ron’s voice was chocked on the last sentence, and he took in a deep breath, holding up a hand to keep Hermione from speaking. “I came up here to see if you wanted to go to Diagon Alley. Ginny and Bill are already there, and Mum said it would do us good to get out some.”

Now, Hermione Anne Granger was known throughout Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as one of the brightest witches of her time, and she did not hold that title for nothing. She could sense the naïveté in Ron’s thoughts on their Headmaster, and could hear the small amount of uncertainty, layered under mounds of sureness, in his words.

Did he not care to know the truth of the best friend’s life? Did he not care that a man he so blindly trusted could be responsible for years and years of pain and sorrow bequeathed to a boy they had considered a brother?

But then Hermione noticed a small glint of a powerful emotion in the depths of Ron’s uncommon blue eyes. Though he wore a mask worthy of Slytherin on his face, his eyes were like windows to his soul. Ron needed to believe that Harry had lived a painless, though unloved life. The possibility that the raven-haired teen had been hurting this whole time, and Ron had not noticed it, was not something the youngest son of Arthur could withstand. And if it turned out to be not just a possibility, but truth, Ron would be crushed beyond repair, and no one would be able to pull him from it.

With a small sigh, and her inner gut telling her that it was wrong, Hermione rose to her feet, and placed a gentle hand upon the taller, older boy’s arm. He raised his eyes to meet hers, and she smile softly. Ron was all she had left. If her accusations caused him pain, then she would cease to make them.

“Let’s go, then,” she whispered kindly. The wizard’s face lightened somewhat, and he returned her smile. Without warning, he shifted his arm quickly so that her hand traveled into his own, and he grasped it quickly and led her toward the door. Though she tried to hide it, Hermione’s own fears on Harry’s supposed abuse would not alleviate from her soul, and a sick feeling settled in her stomach as the duo exited the room.

.T.

They sat quietly at the kitchen table, this father and son. It was rather… odd, that two men who had been deprived of the love of a family for so long were now doing everything within their power to avoid the delightful experience. No words formed on the lips of either wizard to strike up a conversation, and neither of the two sets of dark eyes currently staring at the plates in front of them rose to make contact with the other. Uncertainty and tension were so thick in the room that it would take five swings of an axe to slice through them. And to her, it was quite obvious that neither men were used to feeling as unstable as they were now.

Merelda had been surprised when Severus had informed her last night that the young man he had brought to the castle with him was, in fact, his son. She was not aware the Vida vampire had ever taken a lover, let alone had a child. She had known Severus since he was seventeen and new in Lord Voldemort’s service, and never before had he shown any signs of desiring any sort of family – especially a son or daughter that he would have to take care of. However, the vampire lord was rather gifted at hiding his thoughts and feelings, and not even Lord Voldemort himself could always see through his mask.

The witch turned her gaze to rest on the younger vampire. There was so much of Lord Severus in him, and not just in appearance. Conversely, where Severus had hollowed cheeks and a narrow, pointed nose, this boy had a youthful, handsome look about him that she had not noticed the night before. His mother… or his father, knowing how Severus swung, must have been quite the looker to produce such a pretty child as the one before her. He resembled a creature one usually saw in a mythological book; divine, yet murderous. Simply amazing…

And he was not eating the abundance of food she had placed on his plate.

Instead, the young Snape had taken up twirling and pushing his fork around the meal, effectively meshing them together in a repulsing, greenish-yellow creation. She bit back the usual rebuke she bestowed upon those of similar age who did the same thing – Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy being the most common of those guilty of it, and, of course, Lord Severus. Instead, she forced a small, polite smile on her face that she forced to reach her eyes, and spoke in a respectful, calm manner.

“Master Snape,” she implored softly, using the surname, as she did not know his first. However, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that it was the elder vampire who looked up at her words, a look of puzzlement on his narrow features as his obsidian eyes blinked at her. The boy simply remained staring at and pushing his food, apparently oblivious to her attempt to gain his attention. “Master Snape?” She offered again. Again, the boy was lost, and Merelda could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stick up as Lord Severus growled.

“She’s speaking to you,” snarled the raven-haired Potions Master harshly. Merelda was shocked to see his son flinch at the words his father hissed, before he looked up at her, surprise written all over his features.

“Oh,” he said gently, voice so light she could hardly hear it. “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” The witch, however, had forgotten what she was going to tell the vampire. Her amethyst pools were lost within the depths of his midnight ones, and she found herself horrified by what she saw there. Horrendous amounts of pain, grief, and a look of wisdom that was only seen in those who had witnessed the horrors of war. How had a child of such a young age witnessed horrors so extreme as to take away his innocence. Why, he couldn’t be more than fourteen…

“Merelda!” She was snapped from her thoughts by the sound of Severus’ call. She looked toward the man she saw as a son, only to see him nod pointedly toward his own son, who was looking at her with slightly concealed curiosity. Blinking for a moment, Merelda quickly recalled what it was she had meant to say, but after all the trouble she had gone through to say it, the words seemed foolish as they left her lips.

“Would… would you like something else?” The boy blinked right back at her, before slowly shaking his head, as though not sure as to if that were the right answer.

“Are you certain?” She pressed, maternal side raising its head. “We have eggs, and bacon, if you would like…” Before she had a chance to finish, though, one of the newer servants (a Squib, if she remembered correctly) gave a shocked little squeak from behind them, and she turned to see Lord Voldemort himself entering the kitchen. A look of amusement danced across the lord’s face, but Merelda could see the worry in the crimson depths of his eyes. She could feel the child beside her tense up, and briefly wandered how a child of Severus Snape could grow up to fear the righteous man before them.

Lord Voldemort momentarily studied the three other people at his kitchen table, eyes lingering longer on Harry than they did on Merelda and Severus, and he could see his rival’s jaw tighten in an effort to keep silent. Obviously, Severus had not gone out of his way to improve his relationship with his son yet, and the realization gnawed at his nerves. Obviously, the man he had once considered intelligent as daft when it came to matters such as these.

“Severus,” he said softly, finally dragging his gaze away from the raven-haired teen and sitting down. The Potions Master raised his face to look at the youthful lord as a servant moved quickly to place food on his pate, frowning as a mischievous smirk formed on Voldemort’s face. “Perhaps, when you and your son are finished with your breakfast, you should take him on a… tour of Mors Amor.” The tension was now so thick that not even the largest knife in the world would be able to make a notch in it. Now both Severus and Potter were staring at him as though he had two heads, and Merelda was sending him an appraising smile.

"My… My lord!” Cried Severus finally, a scandalized tone in his voice. Lord Voldemort arched an eyebrow at him questioningly, and the vampire lowered his volume. “I…I do not think that wise.” A quick glance at Potter told Voldemort the child felt pretty much the same, and his smirk grew into that of no longer sly, but smug.

“We have talked about this, Severus,” he said lightly, an undertone of no-nonsense beneath that Severus caught quite well. “No one will question him when you tell them of his relation to you. If you don’t do it for the fresh air, perhaps then because your son needs to see how we truly live.” The last sentence crushed any opposing argument the Head of Slytherin was going to give, and his head reluctantly fell in respect as Potter could only watch in horror.

“Yes, milord.”

.T.

The streets of Diagon Alley were filled with people clothed in brightly colored robes, smiles adorning their happily flushed faces as they chattered animatedly amongst whatever group they were traveling in. Others, on the other hand, were not so happy as they bartered and argued over the prices for this good and that good, some of the arguments even evolving into full-out screaming matches, of which the customer usually won. However, the scene held no sense of gloom over it, and anyone who was not a witch or wizard would never believe that these carefree people had buried their savior just the day before, in a ceremony that had left few dry eyes in its crowd.

Their behavior made her sick.

As Ginny Weasley walked down the brick path of the famous British Wizarding Community shopping area, her lithe frame pressed closely against the muscled frame of her eldest brother, a sneer rested upon her normally pretty face. Her brown eyes were filled with contempt as she looked upon the smiling faces, and she flinched every time she heard the faintest sound of laughter. She recognized many people from yesterday’s funeral, and she remembered their tear-streaked faces as they sat and listened to Dumbledore preach. How in the name of Merlin had they managed to get over their grief so quickly? Had they merely faked it?

“Ginny?” Bill’s tone was soft and light as he spoke her name, and she looked up at her brother curiously. It had actually been his idea for them to take off and leave Ron and Hermione behind, claiming he just wanted time with only the two of them. Ginny had, of course, accepted this, having not been out of the company of Ron since school had let out. Besides, she knew the eldest of her brothers had an alternative reason for coming here.

“Yes?” She replied in the same fashion, smiling at him a bit. He returned it, though a concerned glint flashed in eyes identical to her own.

“Alright?” He inquired. She offered him a shrug and looked down, not giving a verbal response. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and gave it a small squeeze of understanding.

“They didn’t know him, Gin,” he reasoned knowingly. She shot him a look and nodded slightly in acceptance, continuing to stay quiet as they walked down the cobbled path. Her teeth still grated whenever she caught a smile, and she still tensed at any sound of laughter. Even if they hadn’t known Harry, they should at least have some respect for him. He had risked his life four times to save theirs! That had to be worth something.

Ginny was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t see the witch walking toward her until it was too late. Though their collision was small, the other woman turned on her viciously, a grotesque sneer on her face as she snarled.

“Watch where you’re going, Muggle lover!” She spat, before turning around and taking off, not giving either Ginny or Bill a chance to say anything in turn.

“Pansy Parkinson,” observed Bill, voice slightly layered with disgust. “The Order has been watching her father since June. Must be making her uptight.” Ginny stared after the raven-haired girl, watching avidly as she disappeared down a path she knew led to Knockturn Alley. Her stomach did a little flip-flop at the thought of what lay in there, and she once again turned her face up toward Bill, who was also looking in that direction.

“Bill,” she began, unsure of how she was going to word her thoughts. It had always been her intent to have this conversation with her eldest brother, but the reaction she had envisioned him having may very well be just a dream. He cocked his head in a sign that he was listening, and she cautiously continued. “Do you ever think… think that… maybe we’re on the wrong side? Of the war, I mean?” Bill froze and stared at her oddly.

“What?” The word was not kind, nor was it harsh. As it was, it was more curious than anything, as though he could not believe those words had left the mouth of his baby sister.

Ginny winced slightly, but before she could reply, Bill was dragging her toward the entrance of Knockturn Alley. He pushed her into a secluded corner, his eyes wild and expression firm.

“What are you going on about, Ginny?” He demanded. Ginny blinked at him, too surprised to speak, shooting a glance down at her arm. Bill followed it, and Ginny’s heat sank when she realized it was showing.

“You… you took the Dark Mark?” He whispered hoarsely, holding her arm as though it were fragile glass. Ginny shook her head fiercely, pulling it away.

“No!” She cried. “No, Bill, no! I… I made it!” Her brother gave her a doubtful look.

“You made it?”

“Yes!” She whimpered desperately, eyes fearful. “I swear, Bill, I swear.”

They stood there a moment, Ginny wondering what her brother was going to do. Then Bill’s shoulders relaxed, and he pulled her out of the corner and back into Diagon.

“We won’t speak of it here,” he growled as they walked. “I have a date with Remus I intend to make, and you have to get your robes. We’ll talk later, is that clear?” Ginny nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

What had she done?

.T.

The land of Mors Amor, meek in comparison to others though it was, was an area beloved by all who lived there. Founded over fifty years ago by an ambitious young man by the name of Tom Riddle, it served as a home for over fifty-thousand people, half of whom were Half-Bloods and Muggle-Borns. On its best day, it resembled something similar to a third-world country, with no outside influence or businesses that served absolutely no purpose, as it was a place that had to be kept hidden to stay safe from those who would destroy it. Buildings were worn and old, some obviously abandoned because of poor ventilation. The streets were made up of smooth, cold dirt, and the cold air and dark gray skies only added to its gloominess. However, there were few faces that did not hold some sign of happiness, whether it be twinkling eyes or a small, pure smile. Laughter escaped the lips of playing children without the slightest form of restraint, and warmth and love radiated on the faces of watching mothers. As Harry Potter trailed slowly behind his brisk-paced father, he could not help but stare at the place in wonder.

Snape had not been lying. Dumbledore was truly capable of the horrors that Lord Voldemort had attempted to reign on the Headmaster’s community.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Called Snape, as though he were reading his thoughts. Harry looked up in surprise, only to see that his father had slowed down and was now staring at him with unblinking, emotionless obsidian eyes. “I felt the same when I first came here. I, too, thought Dumbledore to be the kindest man in the world. Obviously, I was wrong.” He turned away and picked up his pace once more, leaving Harry once again to his own devices. The raven-haired teen continued to observe his surroundings from underneath the hood of the navy-blue cloak Snape had insisted he wear.

“All these people are relatives of Death Eaters?” He inquired after a moment, eyeing the back of the elder Vida. Snape slowed again, turning his head to look at his son.

“Some of them,” he explained. “Others are those who were caught in the middle of battles or soldiers of Dumbledore’s that he left for dead.” Harry’s eyes widened in shock, and Severus took that moment to point out examples. “Take that house.” He waved toward a small, dark wooden structure across from them. “Louise McDaniel, a neutral wizard, his wife, and their four daughters were simply living in the right place at the wrong time. Dumbledore did not even bother to check on them after the battle, thought their house was blown to pieces, too busy licking his wounds after his defeat. But Lord Voldemort ordered them to be brought here. Louise and their five-year-old daughter, Rosa, did not survive.” Harry stared at the house in shock as Snape waved to another one four places down. “And in there lives Gideon and Fabian Prewett, two of Dumbledore’s most prized fighters and the Ministry’s highest Aurors. They were injured in a confrontation between the Death Eaters and Dumbledore’s lot, and he simply left them for dead. Lord Voldemort, however, brought them here to be cared for and offered them a place to stay. They fight for him now.”

Harry’s head was spinning as Snape finished speaking. Everything he had ever believed about his beloved mentor was now beginning to crash down around him, leaving only ruble in its wake. This was all so… surreal. It had to be a nightmare, a trick.

“And that’s the orphanage,” continued the Potions Master, either oblivious to his son’s thoughts or ignoring them. Harry looked at the grand, though worn building Snape was waving toward, a sick feeling forming in the pit of his stomach when he realized how large it was… how large it had had to be. “Many of the wards are almost of age, and have therefore moved out of the building and live elsewhere around here. However, several are only around your age and younger, and are forced to continue living there until they are of age.” He shot Harry a look out of the corner of his eye. “So long as the war doesn’t pick up again, the orphanage will no longer be needed in two to three years.” Harry spotted a curious face of a child peeking through one of the windows, and found himself agreeing with his father.

They walked along silently for a while, simply looking, simply observing. Harry felt a pressing to speak to Snape, one he had no doubt was coming from Cedric. There had been questions gnawing at him since he had discovered the truth about his heritage, questions only Snape could answer. And before he could stop himself, one of them simply flew out. A nasty case of word vomit was about to ensue.

“Did you love my father?”

Both of the Vidas seemed surprised at the inquiry, and Snape rounded on Harry so fast that the Gryffindor had no chance of preparing for it.

“More so than you can ever imagine.” They locked gazes for a moment, before Snape turned around more quickly so than he had before, and began to stalk off toward a small, beaten-up shop.

“Then why do you hate me?” Harry called desperately, inwardly shouting every curse he could think of at the ghost of his friend. Midnight eyes watched as his father stilled, and slowly turned around, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I don’t,” he said simply, tone void of emotion. He beckoned his son forward, and Harry reluctantly complied. However, when he reached him, Snape said nothing on what they had just been talking about, and instead motioned toward the shop. “Now, when we go in here, say nothing but a polite hell and a nod good-bye. These people despise any mention of Albus Dumbledore, and will eat anyone alive if they bring him up. You saw Merelda’s actions yesterday.” Harry nodded, shuddering slightly at the memory. Snape seemed to accept this, for he turned around and, with one final glance at his son, pushed open the door.

.T.

It was said in countless books, both magical and non, that ghosts could not hold solid objects. Normally, these books would be right, and were probably considered such, as the only ghosts the authors and a majority of the readers had ever come in contact with were those who had refused to move on, thus becoming what they were.

However, in the cases of James Potter and Cedric Diggory, these books could not be further from the truth.

My Heart and Soul

Jimmy

The deceased Potter let out a no-breath sigh as he lay down the quill, gazing with sad brown eyes at the letter he had written to Severus. The cream parchment was flawless, containing no smudges or inked fingerprints to speak of. Flawless, unlike the love the two of them had had for each other. Flawless, like the beautiful, wonderful child they had created together.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea.” James was drawn from his thoughts by the voice of his companion, and rolled his eyes as he turned to look at Cedric, left eyebrow arched. The former Hufflepuff Seeker looked down, abashed. “It’s just that… this is interfering, isn’t it?” James’ expression turned into an incredulous one.

“Interfering?” He demanded in a cry, eyes wide. “I’m simply telling them what occurred; why I did what I did. Compared to what you just did to Severus and Harry, that’s not even an offence.” Cedric blushed, looking more embarrassed than before.

“Well, Harry has trouble getting his words out,” he explained defensively, though the words sounded weak. James snorted.

“You have Sirius’ letter, right?” He asked the brunette, who nodded gloomily. “Good, because you’re taking it to him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Not to him to him,” the eldest Potter hastily explained. “Just lay it on a desk or chair or something. Hell, if you’re feeling daring, drop it on his head or something.” Cedric simply stared at him as though he had two heads.

“And why can’t you do it?” James looked away.

“You know why,” he said softly, and Cedric instantly softened.

“You’re really leaving, then?” James nodded, picking up the parchment to place it over the top of Severus’ empty cauldron, where he knew his former lover would find it.

“I have to,” he said softly. “I only have time to do one more thing before I leave, and it’s important.”

“More important than saying good-bye to your son and lover?” Demanded to Hufflepuff sourly. James sighed again.

“Cedric,” he pleaded, and the boy surrendered.

“Fine,” he growled. “But if I get caught, you’re taking the rap for it.” James smiled.

“Of course. Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” As Cedric disappeared, James glanced around his lover’s room one last time. He had missed Severus greatly, and to stay in here was tearing him apart. He only hoped that Severus would find the letter, and forgive him.

He disappeared with a small whoosh just as Merelda stuck her head in, eyes narrowed as she gazed around suspiciously, before concluding that she had been hearing things and shut the door.

.T.

Harry’s nostrils were instantly assaulted with a mixture of must, sweat, and beer. Several people, men, women, and children, sat at round tables, large mugs filled with frothy contents before them. Though it was early afternoon, a number of the adults were already drunk, and were either shouting atrocious obscenities at one another, or shamelessly flirting. His father led him past all of this, moving quickly toward an oddly empty bar, where a large man clothed in Muggle cook attire was waiting, a patient smile on his face.

“Lord Severus,” he greeted warmly as Snape sat down, motioning for Harry to do the same. “The usual I presume?”

“For both of us,” the wizard agreed, obsidian eyes glinting in the light. The bartender nodded, drawing a large bottle and two stout cups from under the counter, curious gaze staying on Harry the whole time.

“Who’s he, then? If you don’t mind my asking, of course,” he hastily added, turning his eyes toward Snape as he set the glasses in front of them. The Potions Master quickly downed the concoction, took a moment to process it, and then answered.

“My son,” he said shortly. Apparently, lack of full information from Snape was just as common here as it was at Hogwarts, for the bartender did not seem to mind as he reached out a hand toward Harry, his smile growing.

“Hello, Master Snape,” he greeted, persona much like that of Hagrid. “Name’s Nolan. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Hesitating until he saw Snape nod, Harry took his hand.

“The pleasure is all mine, sir,” he said huskily, stomach jumping with nervousness. Nolan, however, through his head back and roared, as if he found Harry’s response humorous, and turned back to the elder vampire.

“Never pictured you as the father-type, milord,” he said cheerfully. Harry tuned the two men out, not really wanting to hear how his father responded. Even though Snape had claimed not to hate him, and he had promised himself to give both him and Voldemort a chance, the coolness to which Snape treated their relation was painful to hear. Instead, he gazed down at the drink Nolan had given him, studying the purple liquid with a doubtful eye. He had never had alcohol before, though he and Ron had often spoken of trying it. Hermione, however, had warned them that it had a foul taste, and could send first-times into acting more idiotic than those who acted stupid professionally. However, Severus seemed to expect him to act polite, and refusing a drink was definitely not polite. Closing his eyes, he put the cup to his lips, tilted it, and drank.

He coughed and spluttered as the repulsive, fiery liquid made its way down his throat, his eyes watering as he cleared his throat in an effort to remove the alcohol. Hermione was, as usual, right. He had to learn to start trusting her.

“Can’t hold your alcohol, lad?” Mocked a voice from behind him. Harry turned his head, only to see a large, smelly, and grotesque man standing over him, smiling down at him with a gapped-tooth grin. The Gryffindor Seeker instantly tensed as the drunk man continued on. “You’re a mighty fine boy. Beautiful.” He reached out a hand to stroke Harry’s arm, chuckling when the boy jerked back. “Feisty, too. Quite a bed-warmer you would make.” He reached out his hand again, and Harry’s eyes shut tightly, awaiting the gruesome contact. However, it never came, and when Harry opened his eyes, it was to the sight of his father standing beside him, the man’s arm caught in his grip, a murderous look on his face.

“Lord… Lord Severus,” gasped the man, apparently not drunk enough to not recognize the vampire.

“Do not touch my son again,” snarled the wizard, energy around him crackling as he bared his teeth threateningly. The man’s eyes widened in shock.

“Your… your son?” The pub had long since grown quiet, all eyes resting on the scene the two were making. “My lord, I had no idea. I thought… I thought…” Snape sneered, disgusted.

“Thought he was just another poor little boy for you to fuck?” He demanded, and Harry winced at the harsh words. “Get out,” added Snape softly, throwing the man hard to the floor. The drunk stared at him for a moment, before jumping to his feet and racing out the pub. Snape stared after him a moment, as though waiting for him to come back, before he turned toward Harry, hard eyes softening considerably.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly. Harry nodded numbly, not even protesting as his father pressed the rest of his drink into his hand. “Finish that,” he ordered. “You will feel better.” And with that, he moved back to his seat, where a relieved Nolan stood waiting. Brawls with Snape were obviously something everyone wished to avoid.

“Lord Severus,” began the bartender, attempting to draw the vampire’s attention away from the murder he had almost committed. “Have you seen The Daily Prophet today? Can you believe it?”

Harry, whose eyes were watering again because of the alcohol, looked over to where the man had pulled out the paper, eyes widening as he caught sight of the headline.

Boy Who Lived Laid To Rest, But New Questions Arise. Was Harry Potter, World Savior, Abused?

“What the fucking hell?” He sputtered, throat still on fire. Snape sighed, lightly setting his cup down, as Nolan stared at the boy in wonder.

“I think it’s time to return to the castle.”

.T.

Rebellion was a twisted thing that always had three possible outcomes. One, you could win against whomever it was you were trying to overthrow and kill. Two, you could be caught before you were able to carryout your task, and be killed for you treason. And three, you could win and kill the person you overthrew, and later be killed by people who were still loyal to the one you killed.

Throughout history, the second and third outcomes were always the most common.

However, as the group of men and women surrounded the blonde haired wizard that had called them, the possibility that they could, and probably would, be killed for this did not enter their minds. And why should it? They had been making plans behind Lord Voldemort’s back even before the man had returned. It wasn’t as though he had ever acted suspicious of them, either. There was no doubt he was, of course, suspicious of their activities, but if he were to act upon it without proof, the rest of the Death Eaters still loyal to him would think him insane, and would soon also rebel.

So no, death was not on the minds of any of the ten witches and wizards surrounding Lucius Malfoy.

The aristocratic wizard smirked as he watched his followers gather around him. They were pathetic, the whole lot of them, and he was damn sure they knew it. After all, were they not mere inches of self esteem from groveling at his feet? From kissing his robes and boots, they way they did with Voldemort?

Pathetic!

“Silence!” He roared, his voice echoing throughout the empty halls of Malfoy Manor. Instantly, everyone stilled, turning fearful eyes toward their new leader. Lucius had a temper worse than that of Lord Voldemort, and was already responsible for the death of three Death Eaters who had dared to not take him seriously. From behind them, there was the sound of the entry door slamming shut, and the scuffling of feet as Peter Pettigrew hurried to join the cluster. He was the only one of them safe from Lucius’ wrath, as he was the only one who could spy on Lord Voldemort. Still, this did not keep the anger from Lucius’ cool blue eyes as he glared at the animagus, who broke through the crowd to sit at his feet.

Everyone stood (or in Wormtail’s case, sat) in silence for a moment, none daring to speak, or even cough, as Voldemort’s right hand gazed around the room. Each held their breath as his eyes went over them, and they each held their breath as his eyes passed over them. After a few moments, Lucius spoke.

“As you all are well aware,” he began, voice booming powerfully. “Harry Potter was buried yesterday in Godric’s Hollow.” He stopped for a moment, challenging them to chatter, and when they didn’t, continued. “As you are also well aware, William Nott was spying in number four, Privet Drive. He was inside when the house exploded.” This time, there was chatter, as no one had been quite sure if the elder brother of their youngest recruit had been inside the house during the time or not. However, a quick Crucio upon Avery quickly silenced them.

“Four bodies were pulled from Potter’s house,” explained Lucius over the Death Eater’s screams. “And Nott never returned. Now, as we cannot count on Muggles being smart enough to stay hidden when someone is after their lives, three of the bodies were obviously theirs. And as William was under Magical Contract to report back here every night, willingly or not, and has not done so, it can also be assumed that the final body was his. Which means, Harry Potter is still alive.”

He doubted that, even if Avery were still under the curse, anyone could keep their silence after that revelation. There were scandalized outcries and plans already forming as to how to capture the pesky runt, and Lucius smiled at the determination of his servants before clearing his throat.

“I will offer power and riches beyond imagination to anyone who finds Harry Potter and brings him to me… alive.” The talking started up again, and the excitement was almost too much to bear. He rubbed his forhead as Wormtail spoke to him.

“Master,” he hissed timidly. Lucius popped open an eye to look down at the fat, short wizard. “I was wondering what you have done about what I told you with Narcissa.” Lucius smirked sadistically and replied.

“My wife is no longer of concern.” Wormtail returned the smirk, although it appeared forced, as a sharp crack echoed in the room. Lucius turned his head to see Emo, his eldest and most trusted house-elf, staring at him with intense blue eyes.

“Mistress Zabini has just sent word that Master Draco will be returning tomorrow, Master Lucius,” he said, bowing deeply. If possible, Lucius’ smirk grew.

“Excellent.”

.T.

Severus made his way swiftly toward the quarters Lord Voldemort had provided him with twenty ago. He found himself unable to breathe, unable to think. The halls were spinning worse than they ever did when he was drunk, and he literally ran smack dab into his thick oak door before opening it.

Shit.

What the hell was wrong with him? So he had told his son he had killed the Dursleys, so what? The boy should be rejoicing in after what those atrocious Muggles had done to him. He should be down on his knees and kissing the ground Severus walked on for doing it! He had made certain that Harry Potter would never be returned to the guardianship of those people again. He had made sure that that fat, sorry excuse for a human would never be capable of lying hands on him again. He should be happy, he should be smiling…

He should be thankful!

But his son had simply stared at him with hollow midnight eyes, and had asked in a broken, chocked-with-emotion voice… “Why?”

Why?

“Why the bloody hell not?” Demanded Severus in a dull roar, digging into his alcohol cabinet and pulling out a glass jug of Fire Whiskey. He popped it open, tossing the cork to the side absently, and took a long, deep swig, wiping his mouth off with the sleeve of his robes.

“James, what have you done to me?” He questioned mournfully into the air. He looked down and sneered at the drink in his hand, and sent it flying to the side, not flinching as it crashed into and shattered against the wall, its contents dripping down the dark green paint and staining the beige carpet below. He would clean in later, before Lord Voldemort came in and complained. He groaned as his head gave a vicious throb, reaching a hand up to massage it.

He needed a headache potion.

Severus moved toward his stores, throwing open the large wooden doors, studying the hundreds of phials filled with various potions with narrowed eyes.

Nope, not that one. No, that one was a Sobriety Concoction. That one was far invisibility. Pepper-Up, Calming Drought, Verita Serum… damn it!

He would have to brew a new one. Curse Lord Voldemort and his constant headaches!

Severus staggered toward his small, portable cauldron, smiling slightly when he realized all the ingredients were already laid out. He had forgotten that he had intended to make a new batch of his desired potion. He raised his wand, prepared to create a fire underneath, when he saw it.

A lone, flawless piece of cream parchment lying across the top of his cauldron, taunting him, daring him to pick it up.

“Blast it, Tom,” he snarled softly, uttering the name he would not dare use before Lord Voldemort. “This better not be another mission. I have more important things to do.

He picked up the letter and began to scan it, slowly growing numb as realization struck.

Severus,

I know you remember me from last night, and I know you’ve been trying to write it off as though it were a dream. You wouldn’t be you unless you were. But I promise you, Sev, I am as real as the piece of parchment you hold in your hand.

I know you hate me. I know you wanted to die the day I left you, and I know you wanted to wrap your hands around Lily Evans’ neck when I married her. I know that, had I not been dead, you would have killed me when you realized I kept Harry a secret from you. I beg of you, love, to let me explain. 

It wasn’t long until after you had left for Mors Amor for your six-month stay that I began to feel sick. Since you had all but threatened Lily within an inch of her life to watch over me ( I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know!), she took me to St. Mungo’s to be checked over. Several tests and one memory charm later, I discovered I was pregnant. I was, of course, ecstatic. We had talked about having children before, and you had even hinted of a proposal that would take place upon your return. I could not wait to write and tell you the news.

Lily, however, looked as though the war had been fought, and she was the only one left standing in a field of bodies. She revealed that Dumbledore had been watching us for months, and that he was growing suspicious of both us and your allegiance. She claimed that he harbored a deep hatred for vampires, seeing them as dark creatures, and the only reason he kept you around was because he had need of your potion skills. She told me that if she learned of the union we shared, and the child we created, he would kill you both. Your death would have been a horrible blow to Voldemort’s cause, and would have left Dumbledore’s side the stronger of the two. I couldn’t let that happen.

So, two months later, complete with illusion charms upon the both of us, Lily and I married, claiming to have been together all along. Not hard to believe, considering how much time we spent with one another.

You know the rest of the story.

You love him, Severus. I know you do. It’s in your eyes every time you look at him, in your actions before you even knew he was our son. Don’t you keep that from him, Sev. Don’t you dare.

His true name is Aeron Servarius Snape, after your brothers. Harry James Potter was just an alias Lily and I created to appease her father. I thought you would appreciate the gesture.

I must go now, Sev. My time here is running short, and I have one more task to carryout before I leave. Give this to our son so that he may understand things, and then burn it. Should Dumbledore know, it will be the death of you both.

My Heart and Soul,

Jimmy

As Severus’ arm fell to his side, he absently noticed, with a pang of annoyance, that his headache was gone.

.T.

In the course of over sixty hours, fourteen-year-old Harry Potter’s life had been turned upside down, pulled inside out, and ripped to pieces. Everything he had believed true, and thought possible, was nothing more than a pack of lies and childish hope he had carried with him for ages. For thirteen years, he had believed himself an orphan, with only a horrible aunt, uncle, and cousin to which he could call family. And now, he had discovered his most despised professor of his second worst subject was his second father, and that he was in no way, shape, or form related to Lily Potter. The man whom he had believed to be his sworn enemy was turning out to be the lesser of two evils when compared to the mentor he had loved for four years. His whole life, though he knew he was different, he had known himself to be human. Except now, that had been taken away, too. He was fucking vampire, as in the things that sucked blood and killed people to stay alive.

And now, the people he had once believed to be the last of his living family…

Harry had never loved the Dursleys. In fact, there had been dark moments in his life when he had actually entertained the idea of killing them himself. But those had just been fantasies. Daydreams. He had never really wanted them dead. He had never really wanted anyone dead, not even Lord Voldemort. And yet, they were gone, killed by the hand of his father…

For him?

Harry’s head shot up as his door creaked open, and he forced his face to be impassive as his father stuck his head in.

“Can I come in?” Harry stared for a moment, as though having not expected Severus to ask permission, before nodding. The man moved in slowly, looking decidedly uncomfortable with the situation, so Harry spoke first.

“Hermione, Ron, and Ginny…” He began, unsure how to word it. “Are… Are they… Are they taking it pretty bad?” Severus observed him a moment, surprised he had broken the ice, before shrugging.

“I have had yet to leave the castle since we arrived,” he explained. “However, knowing of how close your friendship was, I would imagine so.” Harry looked down, apparently aggrieved by the news, so Severus chose that moment to pull the letter out from his pocket, holding it out to him.

“What’s that?” Inquired the boy curiously. Severus shifted uneasily.

“A letter… from your dad.” He said this very quickly, like he didn’t expect Harry to believe him. However, the teen took it timidly, not saying a word, and began to read it.

“Why did he believe her?” He asked after a few moments, looking up from the parchment.

“What?” Severus asked, dumbfounded. Harry smiled and held out the parchment.

“Why does he keep believing her when she tells him this stuff about Dumbledore?” Severus’ eyes widened in remembrance, and he explained.

“Lily was always very close to Dumbledore, as she was taking extra lessons and such with him. James and I could never understand how she could bear being so close to him, but she pointed out that it did have its benefits.” Harry nodded, accepting this, and returned to the letter. It was silent until he reached the end, in which his face scrunched up in confusion once more.

“Aeron… Ae…ron… Areon?” Severus smirked a little as Harry tripped over his new name.

“Aeron. It’s simply a fancy way of spelling Aaron. My mother enjoyed being different like that, and James liked it.”

“I do, too.” Said Harry softly, glancing at Severus shyly. “It’s a nice name. Little difficult to get off the tongue, but nice all the same.”

“Good, because you’re stuck with it.” They sat there for a few minutes, the silence comfortable for the first time, before Severus spoke.

“Listen… I’m not so sure about this father stuff. My father wasn’t exactly… well, let’s just say he and your uncle, had he not been Muggle, would have gotten on great. I’m not so sure I can parent you, but I’m willing to give it a shot.” Harry looked down.

“I don’t know how to be a son. But, I suppose I can try, too.” Severus nodded, and was about to stand when Harry gave a low groan. He was instantly at the boy’s side.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Harry tried vainly to wave his concern away.

“It’s nothing. I just feel a little sick, is all.” Severus instantly placed his hand upon his forehead, frowning slightly at the warmth he felt.

“You’re hot,” he accused. Harry lifted his head, smiling slightly.

“It’s just warm in here. Really, I’m fine. Long day.” He yawned pointedly, and Severus backed off a little.

“If you’re sure…”

“I’m sure,” Harry assured, moving to situate himself under the covers. “I just need some sleep. Do… do you think its possible that, tomorrow, we could find out how my friends are doing?” Severus, still suspicious over the warmth, nodded slowly.

“I’ll send someone to look in on it. You get some sleep, alright?” Harry gave him a tired smile.

“I will. Good night… dad.” The word was foreign to both of them, but Severus felt a little flop in his stomach at its usage. He moved toward the door, waving his wand to dim the light.

“Good night…Aeron.”

And at that moment, as his eyes closed, Dumbledore’s Golden Boy, his perfect pawn, was murdered by truth, and the son of Severus Snape and James Potter fell asleep in his place.

.T.

“You don’t have to go back, you know.” Draco’s silver eyes rolled as Blaise repeated himself for the fiftieth time since the Knight Bus had dropped them on the outskirts of Whales. And for the fiftieth time since the Knight Bus had dropped them off on the outskirts of Whales, Draco’s reply was no reply at all. Instead, he shifted the weight of Kari, Blaise’s three-year-old sister, in his arms once more. The adorable raven-haired toddler to whom Draco could never say no had demanded to accompany her brother and ‘Dwaco’ to Malfoy Manor, throwing a fit until her mother, who had said no, was forced to change her mind. Draco supposed your only daughter’s face turning blue from lack of oxygen was likely to do that. Now, Kari rested in his embrace, eyes identical to Blaise’s gazing around their cement surroundings curiously.

The trio walked in tense silence for a few more minutes, growing steadily closer to Draco’s home, before Blaise finally blew, which his friend had been waiting for.

“Damn it, Draconis Lucius Malfoy, I’m serious!” He bellowed, the words echoing off the stone structures so that everyone around could hear.

“And so am I!” The blonde Slytherin shot back, volume lower so as not to hurt the ears of the girl he was holding. “Think about it, Zabini! I go back to your house and hide out there. How the hell is that going to keep me away from Lucius’ wrath?”

“My parents won’t let him take you!” Assured Blaise, growing desperate now. Draco’s eyes widened at his friend’s naïveté.

“He’ll kill them, Blaise! You know he will.” He was really beginning to grow frustrated. “Look, it’s not open for discussion, alright? I’m going home, and that’s final!” He stormed off, Kari clinging tightly to his neck. He could hear Blaise’s footsteps as the boy reluctantly followed them, but thought nothing of it. Didn’t Blaise know how badly he wished he could just stay at Zabini Manor? Or Mors Amor? He would kill to able to be free of Lucius, to live his own life, to simply just… live.

But he couldn’t.

They reached Malfoy Manor in no time at all, and Draco’s heart sunk at the sight of his open window – Marissa’s sign that his father was entertaining company. Thank Merlin for his house-elf, else he would have walked right into the dining hall, and right into them.

He handed Kari to Blaise when they reached the porch, his stomach in knots and his head pounding at the prospect of walking through those doors. Blaise watched him with concern, before speaking up.

“Look, Draco, I’m sorry.” The younger boy waved him off, smiling slightly.

“It’s fine, Blaise. I know.” Blaise returned the saddened expression, sighing slightly.

“Dwaco miss Kari?” Inquired the little girl in Blaise’s arms cutely. Draco forced a look of pure happiness onto his face as he answered her.

“Of course I will, love!” He cried in an exaggerated tone. Kari giggled, and a real smile fell on Draco’s face. “Give us a kiss, then.” Kari obliged, laying a rather sloppy one right on his cheek. She giggled and buried her face into her brother’s shirt. Blaise smiled slightly, though it faltered when he looked at his best friend.

“Come over if it gets too bad,” he pleaded, and Draco nodded.

“I will. Now go.” Blaise nodded and took off, Kari waving good-bye over his shoulder. The Slytherin waited until they were out of sight before slowly opening the door of the manor and walking in. He hadn’t even made it two steps after closing the door before his father’s voice greeted him.

“Good evening, Draco.”

.T.

“You’re such a girl, Moony!” Called Sirius as he made his way toward the living room of Grimmuald Place. He shook his head as Remus simply continued humming a Muggle tune Lily had taught them years ago. The werewolf had been in this state since he and Bill had had their ‘date’ (he wasn’t sure if talking over werewolf rights and other boring stuff counted as a date, but whatever made their wands stick up). Personally, Sirius didn’t have a problem with it. As far as he knew, he was the last one Remus had ever dated. It was good to see his friend get out with someone else.

The animagus sat down, pulling out a book on pranks he had read a thousand times, and opened it. Before he got to the second sentence, however, he felt something on top of his head. Reaching up, he felt a single piece of parchment, which he instantly brought down. Scanning it, his eyes widened and his heart stopped.

“Remus!”

.T.

He felt sick. And not sick like he usually felt, but worse. Like he wanted to throw up, but at the same time just wanted to eat and eat and eat. The halls were tilting, and he found himself crashing into more walls and doors than he would have had he two left feet. His tongue was swollen, and his throat was dry and on fire. A sharp stabbing pain was emitting from his head, worse than whenever Lord Voldemort had gotten near.

He should have listened to his father.

He slammed into yet another door, harder this time than he had the other ones, and found himself flung into the wall beside it. Before he could move, his eyes were assaulted by light, and he blinked rapidly to stop the instant tears.

“Aeron?” A voice called. Voice… Aeron.. his father! He nearly cried with relief as he felt two hands come to rest on his shoulders. “Aeron, what is it? What’s wrong? Do you feel worse?” The man was simply amazing in his perception.

“Yeah,” was all he was able to utter before darkness consumed him. The last thing he heard was his name, and two strong arms wrapping around his small frame.

TBC

So –smile- do I have you worried? What’s Bill going to do about Ginny? What’s Lucius going to do to Draco? What’s wrong with Harry? Hehehehehehehehehe! I enjoy my cliffhangers!

There’s something up with Ron, too. –WIDE grin-.

Points: William Nott is (or was) the older brother of Theodore Nott (in this story, anyway. I don’t think he truly exists). He had an animagus form of a spider, which is how he got his spying done. As he was dying, his body reverted back to normal. He was just as tall as Harry, which is why no one thought to question anything, blah, blah, blah (I think you get the point). Now, the question is, why was Lucius spying on Harry to begin with?

Also, you did not get a view into Sirius' letter, because it was basically the same as Severus', only without all the stuff personal to the Potions Master. 

Pronunciations   
Kari: Car E

Aeron: Aaron, Erin (as stated in story, but incase you missed it)

Nolan: Null N

That’s it.

Next Chapter: Something’s fatally wrong with Harry, and no one knows what to do. Bill is angry at Ginny… or is he? Does he have secrets of his own? Draco makes a horrifying discovery on his mother, and Hermione makes a horrible mistake. James’ final task leaves a mark on Dumbledore, and Severus prays for his son. This is all without mention of Sirius Black, and his reaction to James’ letter. Another Cedric/Harry scene (PG-13. Sorry, folks).

Notes: For you Cedric/Harry fans, I will be starting a fic centered on them that will be posted before the 20th. Early Christmas present, what can I say? –twitches-

Alright, you lot, I’m out. I’ve been sitting in front of this computer for 8 hours just writing this. 11k words. –snorts- I remember when I thought 5k was a lot –twitches again-.

Hugs!

-Brit


	6. Poison of Darkness

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Lord Voldemort, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. (Those books would not be fit for the eyes of a child if I did –snicker-) To elaborate further, I also do not intend this fanfiction to be any form of slander, nor do I make profit from it. (May I continue on with my story now? –glare-)

Notes: Sorry for the late update. First Christmas, then the damnable MLA papers and online courses. –sighs- Not to mention my own novel, which is finally up and running –beams-. Anyway, you got your Cedric/Harry slash story out of it, did you not? Delcius Cruciatus is so much easier to write than this story… then again, all new ones are. o.O

Notes 2: This chapter is un-beta’d, as my beta is currently asleep. I’ll fix it later. X.x

To Reviewers: I said it in My Lord Potter, and I’ll say it now. I am going to marry each and every one of you! Over two hundred reviews? Over 10k hits? Need I go into detail on how much I love you? –cries- Seriously, your reviews do keep this story going, and I appreciate the time you take to write them. Thank you so much.

To Readers: Crucio! –snorts- (see note on previous chapter if you are lost)

Warnings: Slash, AU, language, violence, Dumbledore-bashing (just can’t bring myself to like him outside of the books, you know?), and me, writing the story. Run. O.O

Enjoy!

Chapter Six

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore was frowning heavily at the parchments on his desk, though his mind was not at all on them. His silence caused unrest and annoyance to his portraits (who loved things to gossip about), but as it usually did, he thought nothing of it.

What a sticky, complicated situation he was in!

For over twenty years, since James Potter and Lily Evans had taken their first steps into Hogwarts’ Great Hall, the elderly Headmaster had been planning. Planning the union between the roguish, handsome heir of Gryffindor and the beautiful, clever heir of Ravenclaw. Such an offspring would be invaluable in his campaign to destroy the Dark Lord, Voldemort, and would also serve to make a grand figurehead. Though it had a pity to lose James and Lily, it had proved to be worth it.

Had being the operative word it that sentence.

Harry Potter was dead, killed in a Muggle fire. Though there was talk of it having been a Death Eater who had caused the deaths of the Boy Who Lived and his family, Dumbledore had quickly waved such accusations off. The words he had placed around Harry Potter’s house were strong and damn near impossible to break, and if they had been breached, the alarms in Arabella Figg’s house, as well as the ones in his office, would have gone off, and they would have been able to get there in time to save Harry.

But now was not the time for such brooding thoughts.

There was little, if any, doubt that Lord Voldemort knew of Harry Potter’s death. It had been almost three days, and it would be far too much to ask that one of his spies had not reported such an important thing. It would also be too much to hope that he was not using the situation to his advantage, gathering up his Death Eaters and planning attacks on both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. As much as the old Headmaster of Hogwarts hated to admit it, Harry Potter had been the only one strong enough to defeat the Dark Lord. He had held within him a power that would take months, possibly even years, of intensive training to put into another. Even if he did train someone to be the next savior of the Wizarding World, they would never have what that boy had had. Never.

“Damn it all to hell,” growled the usually good-tempered man, throwing himself back in his chair, wrinkled hands over his ancient eyes. From beside him, Fawkes, his ever-present and stunningly beautiful phoenix, gave a low trill of annoyance at his words, shaking his left foot, which, for some reason, made a clanking noise. Dumbledore removed his hands and cracked open his right eye to glare at the bird. “Leave me alone.”

Fawkes glared back him balefully, not impressed in the slightest, and gave another trill, this one much louder and high-pitched than the last, causing the wizard to groan in pain. The damnable creature had been acting like this for over fourteen years now, and it had been growing steadily worse over the past few weeks. It took every inch of power within him not to shoot the Killing Curse at the grand phoenix, and the only opposing argument he could find so that he would not do so was that his sudden disappearance would raise questions.

A sharp, harsh knock on his door drew Albus Dumbledore’s musings of murder away, and he had just barely enough time to make himself presentable before Minerva McGonagall burst into his office.

The old Transfiguration teacher was one of those hit the hardest by the death of Harry Potter. As Head of Gryffindor, Minerva had always developed a close bond with each and every student that had spent one to seven years in her tower, and her relationship with the Boy Who Lived was no different. Her normally well-kept hair was in disarray, her face flushed, and eyes wild, which was even more apparent by the bags beneath them. He instantly stood to greet her, true concern radiating in his gaze. Whilst Minerva constantly got on his nerves, she had once been his protégé, and they had grown close during her apprenticeship, almost to a father/daughter level. Though she could never replace his sweet Lily, he would be greatly devastated if something were to happen to her.

“Minerva,” he greeted kindly, outstretching his hand toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat, my dear lady, and tell me what troubles you.” Usually, treating the stern Deputy Headmistress in such a fashion was followed by an immediate rebuke. However, much to the Headmaster’s concern, the woman gave a slight nod of her head and moved to comply, not offering any word what so ever. Eyes now troubled, the Headmaster also sat down, keeping his infamous twinkling eyes on her still form.

“So much is happening, Albus,” she sighed finally, voice filled with emotion. He waited patiently for her to continue. “You-Know-Who’s return, the attacks, Harry…” She drew off, and it occurred to Dumbledore that perhaps his favorite professor was just in need of counseling. Though he had very little time for such a extraneous thing, he forced his gaze to remain gentle, and his words to be sympathetic as he spoke.

“I know how you feel, Minerva,” he said softly, looking down. “Harry was like… like a grandson to me.” He could feel Fawkes’ heated glare as the Head wore an expression of sympathy, for it was quite rare for Albus to grow so close to a student. “His death weighs heavily on my heart, and I wish I had time to mourn for him. But alas…”

“The war,” finished McGonagall sadly, and the Headmaster nodded gravely.

“With Harry gone, nothing stands in Voldemort’s way for taking over Hogwarts, not even myself.” He sighed again. “I hate to say it, for it is not something light, but another will need to be trained to take Harry’s place in the final battle.” Minerva’s eyes went wide, and her hand flew to her heart. She desired no student to go into battle with the murderous Dark Lord; she nearly lost her head every time Dumbledore spoke of Harry doing it.

“Do you…Do you have anyone in mind?” She inquired softly, and Dumbledore sighed one last time. She knew what she was thinking – that it would be one of her students who would be the unlucky candidate. Unfortunately, she would be correct. It was just expected, in a battle of a light wizard versus and dark wizard, that the light wizard be someone brave and strong, which was what the House of Gryffindor was all about.

“Several, as a matter of fact,” he replied. “Though none of them are up to Harry’s standard, with some training, I think they could get the job done.” Minerva’s eyes widened at such an unemotional response, and Dumbledore, sensing an angered outburst, quickly cut her off. “Dear me, look at the time! Eleven-thirty already! Have I gone without supper? Perhaps, Minnie, you would care to join me n a late-night escapade to the kitchens?” It was clear, judging from the expression on her face, that Professor McGonagall would rather sit there and continue to argue the point. However, the elderly witch knew it would be pointless to persist, especially when he wore that look on his face. With her shoulders slumped in reluctant defeat, she stood, as did he, and made her way to the door.

The Headmaster had already stepped out, holding an awaiting arm to her, when Fawkes gave a loud, ear-splitting cry. Minerva whirled around to see what had disturbed the majestic creature, only to see his magnificent head bowed over one of the most beautiful flowers she had ever seen.

“Albus,” she whispered, transfixed by the blue and purple coloring. “What… what is that?”

“Oh, that?” Asked Dumbledore hastily, trying to sound nonchalant. “That’s just something a friend sent me from Romania. It’s nothing, truly. Come, let us eat.”

And with that, he ushered his Deputy Headmistress out the door, sending the phoenix a murderous glare as the bird lifted it head from the Capitis Damnare, before slamming it shut and leaving Fawkes in darkness.

.T.

November 18, 1979

Their breathing was frantic and loud as they lay together, both coming down together from the heights of their climaxes. Their bodies gleamed with sweat from their previous activity, and their lights were alive with such light that would put Albus Dumbledore’s twinkle to shame. Both basked in the warmth of the other, simply enjoying being together, an event that was becoming rarer and rarer every day. The slighter of the two released a sigh as the elder ran nimble, skilled fingers though his hair, causing his lover to chuckle in affection.

“I daresay you look tired, Sev,” teased the man as he continued his ministrations. The Potions Master’s smile at once faded as he took the words for a challenge. Instantly, he moved so that he was on top of James, smirking triumphantly down as the still chuckling man.

“What was that?” He inquired, eyebrow arched in a disbelieving manor. James’ laughter died down, and his face took on a look of content as he snuggled deeper into the soft, expensive silk sheets. Severus rolled off of him and moved to his side, allowing the Potter heir to settle comfortably against him. These were the peaceful moments they yearned for that were not so often enjoyed. With the war steadily growing worse, Severus was called away more and more often, leaving James only in the company of his friends. It was hard on both of them, and times like these were well spent.

“What are you thinking about, love?” Inquired the former Slytherin after they had lain there quietly for a moment. He knew something was up, as James was hardly ever a quiet man. A fond smile was on his lover’s face as he turned to face him, and Severus could not help but reach out a hand to caress the soft skin.

“Sev,” whispered James softly as Severus’ fingers brushed across his chin. “I’ve been thinking…” He drew off and took in a deep breath, causing the Death Eater’s hand to stop their movements, and obsidian eyes to grow concerned. His vampire senses were picking up on extreme anxiety from his mate. James seemed to feel his worry, for he was immediately smiling again and snuggling deeper into his embrace. “I was thinking… I want to have a child.”

He might as well have dropped a Muggle nuclear bomb on the Vida, for the response would have been just the same. His lover was staring at him as though he had grown two heads.

“A… A child?” Whispered the Potions Master. James looked down. He knew his suggestion would not have been well met, not with the way Severus was. “James,” continued Severus after a moment. “I understand that you want a large family, but… but this…” His words faded. “Male pregnancies are extremely rare, and when they do happen, are highly dangerous… fresh Conceptive potions are hard to find, and using an old when could produce further complications…”

“Sev, Sev, Sev.” James could not stop himself from laughing. This was not as difficult as he had thought it would be. At least nothing had been blown up yet. “Relax. I’m not talking about it happening any time soon. And besides, Vida vampires and their mates can become pregnant.”

“We’ve been taking precautions-.” James silenced him with a finger to the lips. 

“I know, love. I know. But, it’s still something to think about, isn’t it?” Severus opened his mouth to comment, but James, seeming to know what he was about to say, quickly added. “Besides, I’ve seen you with Arthur and Molly’s kids when you think no one’s watching. You would make an excellent parent.” Severus couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face at the words.

“You think so?” He inquired softly, to which his lover laughed.

“Yes, Sev,” he assured. “I think you would make a great father.”

July 27, 1994 Present Day

He sat silently on the soft bench, head between his hands, body hunched in a vulnerable manner. His breathing was slow and deep, but his violent shaking disproved any belief that he was calm and collected. Though one’s eyes were usually closed when in such a position, his eyes were wide open, darting around frantically, though what they sought was nowhere around him.

‘I think you would make a great father.’

Severus’ heart clenched at the memory. James had been wrong.

When Aeron had collapsed in his arms two hours ago, Severus had been unable to think. The boy had been gasping for breath, and shaking like there was no tomorrow. Vida vampires had the luxury of being warm to the touch, which helped them stay hidden from public knowledge, but Aeron had been icy, as though he were nothing more than a corpse.

Severus had been too stunned to do anything. In fact, it had been Gideon Prewett, on his way back from a meeting with Voldemort, who had found them and called for help.

He had been unable to do anything.

“Severus?” The Potions Master was drawn from his thoughts at the sound of Lord Voldemort’s voice. He turned to face him, a slight sneer forming on his face at the sight of concerned crimson eyes, not having the energy to do much else. This was all his lord needed for an invite to continue speaking. “Has she discovered anything yet?” He inquired softly, nodding toward the door of the room behind tem. Severus snuck a glance in its direction, practically envisioning Andromeda Black behind its walls, bustling around Aeron, performing this test and that test, shoving potions down his throat, taking vitals. She had once been Madame Pomfrey’s apprentice, and it had only been her marriage to the bastard Muggle Ted Tonks that had kept her from becoming a Mediwitch.

“No,” he said just as quietly, shaking his head, expression frustrated. “You would think that she would know something by now! She’s been in there for two bloody hours!” His anger vanished just as quickly as it had come, and he looked downcast once more. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Perhaps he is in need of blood,” suggested Voldemort gently, knowing the slightest thing could, and would, set his Death Eater off. But Severus simply shook his head.

“He won’t need blood until he is fully transformed, which doesn’t happen until his birthday,” he explained tightly. “There is no medical reason why he should be in this state to begin with.” Lord Voldemort studied him for a moment, blood eyes narrowing as they did.

“You blame yourself, don’t you?” When his Potions Master did not say anything, the supposed Dark Lord grew even more irate. “You couldn’t have known anything like this would happen, Severus! You just said that this is not a common occurrence with Vidas!”

“I still should have known!” Severus snarled back, baring his fangs in anger, causing Voldemort to take an involuntary step back. “He obviously was not feeling well today or yesterday! I should have known!”

“Do you two mind keeping it down?”

Both wizards turned around sharply at the sound of the new voice, both staring at an exhausted and frazzled looking Andromeda. The witch’s hair was messy enough to rival that of Hermione Granger, her eyes damp from being open too long, and her breath rapid from use of too much magic. Severus stood, moving toward her anxiously, awaiting diagnosis.

“Well?” He demanded with a growl. Andromeda sighed, obviously not wishing to be the one who had to divulge her information, but at the sight of the concerned, fearful look in the vampire’s eyes, forced herself to reply, shooting a pointed look at Lord Voldemort. As he took the hint and left, she gave her friend the truthful response.

“I’ve managed to stabilize Harry-.”

“Aeron,” Severus interrupted absently. “His name is Aeron.”

“I’ve managed to stabilize Aeron,” corrected Andromeda gently, looking down. “However, I’m afraid that doesn’t fix things. It appears that, for some reason, his magical side is rejecting his vampire inheritance.”

“Wh…What?” Severus was confused. “That shouldn’t be possible. It hasn’t happened within my family for generations, and we were all witches and wizards to start with!”

“I know,” responded Andromeda, looking toward the door with a forlorn expression. “However, none of your relatives were Harry Potter. There’s something about him that could be interfering with the process. He’s gone through so much, there’s no telling what it could be.” Severus was quickly growing distressed.

“He will be alright, though, won’t he?” He questioned hopefully. Andromeda looked sadly toward the Slytherin Head, and slowly shook her head.

“Unless I can find out what’s wrong with his magic, and fix it, the battle it’s having will kill him. And this time, it will be permanent.”

.T.

This was the second time he had ended up in a place he didn’t know. The first time, his uncle had killed him with a butcher knife, and he had almost been sent onward. Now, however, Aeron Snape, formerly Harry Potter, wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. He couldn’t remember being killed, or anything that could have lead to being dead. The last did remember, actually, was feeling sick and hungry, and accidentally going to his father’s room. Unless his Potions Professor had killed him (which was highly doubtful), Aeron was truly at a loss as to why he was here.

“Harry…”

He spun around at the use of his old name, relaxing slightly when he only saw Cedric Diggory standing behind him. The smile that had immediately formed on his face faded at the sight of the sorrow in his friend’s brown eyes, and a knot of sick fear formed in his stomach.

“Cedric,” he greeted warily. “What’s going on?” For a minute, the deceased Hufflepuff looked reluctant to speak. “Cedric,” Aeron pressed pleadingly. Finally, the elder boy spoke.

“You’re dying,” he said, attempting to sound nonchalant, but failing miserably. The raven-haired vampire froze as Cedric walked past him, processing what had just been said.

“I’m… what?" He couldn’t take this in. Dying? How was that possible? As though he could read his mind, Cedric continued on with his explanation.

“Your magic and vampire halves are conflicting,” he whispered. “They can’t seem to co-exist inside of your body, and it’s killing you.”

“But… wait.” Aeron shook his head, confusion showing brilliantly in his midnight eyes. “Isn’t my father a vampire and a wizard, too? He’s perfectly fine-.”

“Yes, yes, I know!” Interrupted Cedric with an agitated growl. “Damn it, they never told me this would happen!” He was seething, beyond infuriated, and for a second, Aeron was frightened. For never had he seen his friend in such an angry state before.

“Ced…Cedric?” He stuttered, causing the other boy to turn around. “Am… Am I going to die, then?” His former Quidditch rival’s eyes went wide at the words, and before Aeron knew it, he was, once again, in the tight embrace of a dead Hogwarts student.

“No, Ha- Aeron.” A false smile touched the vampire’s lips at the correction. “You are not going to die. I’m going to find out what’s going on with you, and I’m going to fix it.” The grip tightened.

“I promise.”

.T.

Bill glared up at the pitch-black sky, feeling a spark of envy toward the twinkling stars for their lack of care. His lean body was tense with suppressed emotions, and stiff from being in the same position for too long. He was supposed to have gone back to work after his trip to Diagon Alley with Ginny, but at the moment, he didn’t much care whether he still had the occupation or not.

Ginny had a Dark Mark on her arm.

When he had first seen it, he had frozen with shock and fear. It wasn’t possible; Ginny had not had the opportunity to accept it. His parents and brothers watched her far too closely for her to be able to meet up with Lord Voldemort. But then, when he had seen the color, and she had assured him that she had made it herself, his fear had faded, replaced quickly by indescribable anger. Anger created by the fact that she would do something so consequential so lightly. If anyone other than him had seen the Mark, whether it was fake or not, Ginny would be on her way to a high-security Azkaban cell at this very moment, and there would be nothing he could do to stop it.

With a groan of agitated frustration, Bill shot up from his makeshift bed on the ground. He knew he had scared her with his reaction, and he knew that she now sat in her room, frightened that she may have destroyed the only close sibling bond she had.

But he was too involved with his own emotions to care.

Ginny was far too young to be thinking about such things as which side of this war she wanted to join! She should be… running around and playing ‘Harry Potter Vs. The Dark Lord’ with other kids, or cleaning the house, or worrying about summer homework. She should be flipping through Witch Weekly and getting gooey-eyed from the pictures of the ‘Sexiest Men in Britain’, or outside participating in Quidditch with the Twins, Ron, Charlie, and himself. She shouldn’t be crying over the death of one of her best friends, or planning to fly to Voldemort the first chance she got! It was wrong.

This damn war was affecting children just the way it had the first time. Being forced to grow up too fast, being forced to learn protection spells… it wasn’t fair!

It was not fair!

“Bill!” He heard his mother call from the door. He turned around, spotting her shadowy figure beneath the magical outside light. “It’s time to come in now, dear! Your father’s sealing the door!”

“Coming, Mum!” He bellowed back, shoulders slumping. Being trapped inside by an eleven o’clock curfew was maddening, truly so.

As he made his way back toward his beloved, tilting Burrow, his right hand massaged his left forearm, where his own black Dark Mark lay.

Ginny would not lose what she had.

.T.

As the first rays of sunlight beamed their way into the largest guestroom of Mors Amor Manor, Severus was forced to close his eyes for the first time in seven hours. A frustrated growl left the vampire’s delicate mouth at the involuntary action, and he barred his fangs slightly in a vain attempt at intimidation. For this was the first time in those past seven hours that the Potions Master had removed his watchful gaze from the still form of his son, and such an act did not set well with him in the slightest. As he waited for the harsh brightness of the sun to lessen its intensity, he clutched Aeron’s icy hand tighter to compensate the visual loss, as though afraid the younger Vida would disappear.

Everything had been so much simpler when there had been no one but himself to care for. For fourteen years, the only people he found himself occasionally worrying over were his lord and his godson. However, if he were to have died any time during those fourteen years, neither of them would have been affected. Lord Voldemort had hundreds of other loyal followers who cared for him, and Draco had Narcissa, who loved him more than life itself, and his school friends. But now there was Aeron. His son. A child who relied on him more than Severus had ever been relied on before. He wasn’t used to this new feeling that burned within him. He wasn’t used to this new protectiveness he felt, or the heart wrenching love that ate at him more so than it ever had with James.

He had never lived a perfect life. Though it was true that his father had fed him his blood to turn him into a Vida, that occurrence was actually the only kindness he could ever remember receiving from his father. Though Antonio Snape had not been a Vida Vampire, he was still an incredibly powerful wizard, and he had made sure Severus knew it from the beginning. There had been beatings as a child, ones that resulted in injuries far more brutal than the ones seen after a bloody battle. When he had started into his Vida transformation, his father had drilled it into him that he was no more than a freak, a disgrace to the name of Snape, and would never be accepted by either wizards or vampires. And when he had finally completed his transformation, he was too far lost to his father’s abuse to realize exactly how powerful he was. He had allowed himself to be chained in the cellar, his mother’s passionate protests ignored, until that fateful day James had stopped by for a surprise birthday visit…

Something extremely cold and wet hit his hand, and his obsidian eyes flew open, startled to see a track of wetness trailing down his pale skin. Such painful memories reminded him of why he had been so terrified of having a child of his own. The possibility of him turning out like his father was too likely (in his opinion) to risk being a parent to an innocent babe. When he had started becoming short tempered, his fear increased even more. It was why he pushed Aeron away when they had first made the discovery that he was his son. He had been just as cool and hateful toward the teen as he had always been, assuring himself that the hurt Aeron felt then was nothing compared to what he would feel if Severus allowed them to grow close to one another.

But now, here was his son, lying unmoving on a bed, near death, and the only kindness he knew from his father was that shown to him after the letter from James had been read. A whole thirty minutes out of an entire hellish lifetime. Severus’ grip tightened on the raven-haired teen’s hand as more tears fell from his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to his son, voice cracking slightly from unfamiliar emotion. He blinked rapidly as his heightened vision suddenly became blurry, beginning to rub soothing circles into Aeron’s soft skin with his thumb. “I’m so sorry. Look what I have done to you. I’m so sorry. Aeron, please wake up.”

His son still did not move. The Death Eater stared hard at the teen’s face, taking in the structure with a fond eye. How closely he resembled James, how much like him he was.

Would Fate be so cruel as to take them both from him?

“Severus?”

He stiffened as he felt Lord Voldemort’s presence enter the room, looking out of the corner of his eye to catch sight of the youthful lord. His opinion of the man was becoming somewhat torn. Whilst he was still loyal to him, as he had been for seventeen years, he felt a wariness that had never been there before. This wizard had been trying to kill his son since the day he had been born. Whether or not Voldemort had known that Aeron was his son mattered not, and his fangs were once again slightly barred as the tall dark figure approached.

Lord Voldemort sensed the sudden change in attitude immediately, stopping five feet from his follower. He understood why Severus was acting in such a fashion; it would call for a discussion later. But for now, he took in the dark bags under the black eyes, the paler-than-normal skin, and the slouch plague the usually regal form.

“You need to rest,” he said softly, crimson eyes bearing dauntingly into obsidian pools.

“I’m fine,” snarled the vampire snappishly, directing his gaze back to his son. Voldemort twitched slightly at the lax address. Whilst he did not require Severus to bow before him, the man was still had his mark adorning his arm – such blunt disrespect was worthy of punishment upon other Death Eaters.

“Severus,” he hissed, watching with satisfaction as the Slytherin Head tensed. He intensified his glare, focusing on his thread of magic that ran through the vampire, effectively cause the Dark Mark to burn slightly in point. Severus jerked around, standing in a threatening manner, but Voldemort would not budge. “You need to eat and rest. Andromeda is here to check up on your son, and needs her space.” For a moment, it appeared that Severus would continue to disobey him. But then his head lowered in a sign of defeat, shoulders slumping as he shot Aeron one last glance. Without a word, he maneuvered past his lord, keeping out of his reach, and was out the door.

Lord Voldemort sighed as Severus disappeared from view, his eyes drifting to the man’s unconscious offspring. The child looked even more breathtaking asleep, a peaceful look on the face of such a deadly creature. It was not a sight the lord had ever had the opportunity to see before.

“You’re going to cause a lot of trouble for me, aren’t you?” He questioned the young vampire softly. A soft knock on the doorframe informed him that Andromeda was there, and he quickly excused himself to leave her to her work.

Neither of them saw the hazy form standing in the corner of the room.

.T.

A scowl marred Draco’s pale porcelain face as he walked elegantly down the crowded cobbled pathway of Diagon Alley, an expression that also forced him to suppress a wince of pain. He knew the nosy witches and wizards were staring at the dark bruising around his right eye, and were whispering about the slight limp in his step. He also knew the thoughts flying around in their heads toward the observations were far from ones of concern and sympathy. “There goes that Malfoy boy.’ They were probably saying to themselves. “Got into another brawl with the Weasley brood, I’ll bet. Got what was coming to him, he did.” They would never know the truth behind his injuries. They would not even dare to think about it. And why would they? The possibility that the esteemed, sophisticated, and extremely rich Lucius Malfoy would ever abuse his only heir was absurd! The Malfoy patriarch was a man of image (if only a little cold), and such a scandal would shatter the prestigious one he had built for himself.

Draco would not let such beliefs bother him.

So what if people thought so highly of his father that they believed Draco to just be a troubled teenager? He was just relieved that he had managed to escape Lucius’ grip with only minor injuries. He did wish, however, that his wand had not been restricted from performing healing or concealment charms (Lucius obviously wanted him to be humiliated), so that the damn people would just stop staring at him as though he were some sideshow attraction.

‘This must have been how Potter felt,’ he thought dryly, sneering at a little girl who was watching him with wide eyes, and unable to hold back a smirk as she instantly darted behind her glaring mother.

The blonde Slytherin was honestly surprised at the demeanor of the Wizarding Community. Though opinions on whether or not Voldemort had truly returned were still split, these people had just buried their precious savior two days ago, and yet they acted as though the tragedy had never occurred. They were smiling, happy, gossiping…

It was utterly revolting.

“Hermione, I don’t need to go in there!” His head shot to the left at the sound of the familiar voice, silver eyes darting around in search of the figure he knew it to belong to.

“Come on, Ginny!” He heard the pleading voice of Potter’s Mudblood friend. “It will help get your mind off things.”

“Damn it, Hermione.” Draco saw her now, the young red-haired sister of the Weasel, shoulders slumped in defeat as she allowed herself to be pulled by the end into a shop by the bushy-haired Gryffindor. A sly smile lit his face.

Madame Malkin’s.

With the grace becoming of any Malfoy, he strode haughtily toward the store, head lifted high in a prideful way, mindless of the people around him. The bell hovering above the door gave a small ‘ding!’ as he entered, and seemed to cower back a little as he sent it his most murderous glare.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment!” Called the voice of the owner from further back in the store. Draco felt no inclination to reply, instead studying the front room with a critical eye. All that met his gaze were several different colored robes, with no sign of Weasel’s sister or Granger in sight.

“Mr. Malfoy?” He whirled around at the sound of Madame Malkin’s voice. She beamed at him. “Why, it is you! I haven’t seen you since you came to get fitted for first year Hogwarts robes!” Her smile faltered slightly as she got a good look at his face. “Why, what happened to you, dear?” She asked in concern.

“I got in a fight,” Draco replied duly, using the well-rehearsed line Lucius had told him to use if anyone were to inquire about his injuries. The lady’s eyes lost there concern and hardened somewhat at this explanation, and she moved on.

“I suppose you’re here for a fitting, eh?” The Slytherin forced down the involuntary hurt at her sudden change in attitude toward him, and slowly shook his head.

“I’m just here to look around, thank you.” And with that, he headed toward the other section of the store, knowing that his response had been rude, but unable to make himself care.

The robes in the back of the room were more formal and darker than the ones up front. Though there were robe shops in Mors Amor, many of the residents there requested robes from Madame Malkin’s, preferring the darker colors and designs to the common Dark Mark insignias. He looked at them now, not honestly interested, but not wanting to appear suspicious to Madame Malkin, either. He kept his eyes opened for any sign of Ginny, for some reason feeling an urge to speak with her.

And as he rounded the corner of one of the taller racks, he saw her.

She was resting against one of the thick glass windows, the sun making her hair shine in a breathtaking way. Her brown eyes were grief stricken as she examined something on her arm. Draco wanted to ask her what was wrong, but suddenly, all courage failed him. He took a step back, intending to leave before she knew he was there, when he crashed into the cart he had just come around.

Shit.

“Malfoy?”

She had seen him.

He turned around slowly, mindful that she was still wary of him, before looking up to see her face. Her head was tilted in a thoughtful manner, her eyes tinged with irritated red from numerous tears as they studied him thoroughly.

“What happened to you?” She inquired after a moment of silence, voice barely above a whisper. Draco was taken aback by the question. Despite their interaction at Potter’s funeral, he had expected the younger witch to maintain the cool civility they used to address one another whilst at school, and was thus unsure as to exactly how to respond.

“I’m… I’m fine,” he managed to get out. Somehow his tone succeeded in making it clear that it was not a subject he wished to discuss, for though her eyes revealed that she did not believe him, Ginny Weasley nodded, and turned her gaze back toward the window. For a moment, the young aristocrat thought this to be a dismissal, and was about to leave when she called out to him once more.

“Malfoy.” She was still looking out the window. “Those things you said the other day about… about Harry.” She turned to look at him now, body trembling slightly. “Were they… were they true?” The blonde sighed, truly wishing he had kept his mouth shut about the Slytherin rumors. There was truth to them, of course. He and his housemates had their ways of locating such evidence. But that was evidence he couldn’t actually share with her, as he had made an Oath on Slytherin’s Honor to keep it secret.

“There are too many signs pointing to it to ignore,” he finally offered, and the Gryffindor flinched, eyes closing briefly as she let this terrible information sink in.

“And Dumbledore?” She pressed. “He knew about this?” Draco’s features softened at the pain radiating from her voice.

“It’s impossible for him not to have had,” he informed gently. Ginny released a shuddering gasp, and for a split second, he felt an uncontrollable urge to go to her. In fact, he had already taken a step toward her when an angry voice rang out.

“Ginny!” Both teenagers whirled about, a sneer forming on Draco’s face at the sight of the Weasel and the Mudblood. Weasley’s face was a mixture of red and purple as he seethed, shoulders heaving in a way that Draco did not doubt was uncomfortable.

“We’re leaving, Ginny,” he growled. “You should have no interest speaking to someone who spreads lies about Harry to The Daily Prophet.” Draco watched as Ginny’s eyes narrowed.

“I will speak to him if I want to, Ronald-,” she began in a hiss, but Weasley cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Then you insult Harry’s memory!” He snarled. The room went deathly quiet, Ginny’s eyes wide and horrified at the accusation. “Now,” he continued slowly, trying to reign in his anger. “We’re leaving.”

Ginny’s head bowed in defeat, and she slowly moved toward her brother, shooting Draco a glance as she walked past him. He barely managed to catch a glimpse of Granger’s stunned face as the trio headed briskly out the door.

As he observed their retreating backs, a sickening realization struck him. Weasley had mentioned him “spreading lies to The Daily Prophet”. That meant that Rita Skeeter had gone against her word and printed his name in the paper. Which meant that Lucius already knew, or was soon to find out.

And such an open act of rebellion would not go unpunished.

.T.

“This is outrageous!”

Smoke was practically steaming out of Albus’ ears as his hands tightened on the arms of the chair in which he sat. The air about him crackled with energy from his anger, but the other occupants of the room were far from impressed with his show of magic. They shared sly glances with one another, secretly pleased with anger they were causing the elderly wizard.

“I assure you, Mr. Dumbledore,” said their leader with mock humbleness. “That it is, most certainly, not ‘outrageous’.” Albus’ blue eyes flashed with fury as he glared murderously at the Gringotts goblins.

“You have gotten something wrong, then!” He growled. “Harry Potter does not have a will!”

“See for yourself,” hissed one of the others, holding out a glass case which contained a single piece of crispy parchment. “It is signed ‘Potter’ at the bottom, and only someone of the true Potter bloodline could have submitted this into that family vault.”

“It’s a forgery,” insisted the Headmaster stubbornly, sneering at the will. “One of your curse breakers did it. I know several who have personal vendettas against me…”

“Do not insult our intelligence, Dumbledore,” growled the first goblin warningly. “No one, not even ourselves, can enter a Pureblood family vault except for a direct descendent of that particular bloodline.”

“This is preposterous!” The two goblins snorted simultaneously.

“Be that as it may, the will is valid and stands as such. Half of the contents in the Potter Vault go to the Weasley family, and has already been transferred into their account. Fifty percent of the remaining goes to Remus Lupin and Sirius Black, which has been submitted into the… er… “Marauder” account. The remaining is to be given to Ms. Hermione Granger upon her next visit to Gringotts, as she has yet to have her own vault.”

Albus say back in his chair, shaking his head slowly, eyes vacant, showing that he was no longer paying attention. Harry Potter had left a will. When in the name of Merlin had the boy ever been able to make a will? There had never been any unsupervised trips to Diagon Alley, and he knew the boy had never done so by mail, as he always checked his mail before it went out. He had never left the Dursleys, and even if he had, Albus had left the Muggles strict instructions that Harry was never to go to a magical area.

How the bloody hell had it been written?

“I have been left nothing, then?” He asked in disbelief. “I, who am tied to the Potter family by marriage, though not directly, receive nothing?” The first goblin sneered.

“Mr. Potter was never made aware that he was related to you, Mr. Dumbledore,” he informed stiffly. “However, it appears the boy held some fondness for you – it says here that “To Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I leave exactly one knut.”” Albus stared, rage slowly building inside of him. That insolent boy!

“I demand to have the authenticity of that will checked!” He growled, rising from his seat. “Harry Potter was still a minor at the time of his death, which means he could not have made that will without the consent of a guardian…”

“Mr. and Mrs. Potter left specific instructions that in such cases, if Sirius Black was not his acting guardian, he be allowed to do so without the restrictions. As they were his parents, and they signed the form, it counted as permission.”

Albus was dumbfounded.

“You were… left something else, Mr. Dumbledore,” offered the second, his beady black eyes glittering as the words left his mouth, picking up a green envelope from off the desk. The aged wizard looked up curiously, cautiously accepting the parcel with wrinkled hands, eyes scanning the sloppy handwriting.

‘Open’ it read. As though bewitched from his senses, the Headmaster did so, a flash of bright yellow light resulting.

For the next two weeks, Albus Dumbledore would walk around with the words ‘Horny Pedophile’ flashing in bright red above his head.

.T.

He watched with impatient eyes as she moved around, tapping his foot noiselessly against the hard wooden floor as she continued about her meaningless tasks. She had been at it for three hours already, with no positive results. A frown marred his handsome face as he waited for her to realize her efforts were in vain. He wanted her to leave this room, to abandon the still, lithe figure she was hovering over, so that he could begin his own mission to discover what was wrong with the ill vampire.

But knowing Andromeda Black, that could take even more time. Time that he did not have.

He eyed the bottles lining the dresser by the open window. He had restrained himself from messing with them, incase they were actually needed, but it appeared to be the only way to get her to leave. If he knocked over the potions, Andromeda would be forced to return to her home, and possibly even the apothecary, to get new ones. Such an action would give him just enough time to make his own observations and diagnosis, so that he could find a cure that would save Aeron Snape from death.

With grace only the deceased could possess, Cedric moved stealthily against the wall, doing his best to keep hidden from Andromeda’s attention, and lightly tipped four of the bottles off the side of the dresser, just at exact time a strong breeze gusted into the room.

Crash! They fell to the floor. The former Hufflepuff darted into the shadows just as the witch whirled around, profanity on her lips at the sight that greeted her.

“Damn it,” she hissed quietly, with unnecessary worry that she could wake her patient. “I told him the window didn’t need to be left open. But did he listen to me? Of course not.” Her black hair formed a curtain around her face as she knelt to pick of the shattered pieces, a sigh escaping her lips as she picked up one that had held a thick green substances. “I’ll have to go back home for this one. Severus won’t have it.” She stood slowly, waving her wand to banish the mess she had left behind, before her icy blue eyes once again landed on the form of the teenager. With a sigh, she ran her fingers through his raven locks lightly, cast an alarm spell, and slowly made her way out of the room.

The second she was gone, Cedric was in. He moved quickly toward his friend, eyes scanning over his body, taking in the shallow, rapid breathing, the beads of sweat glistening on forehead. Though he knew the rest of Aeron’s body was cool, heat practically radiated from his forehead – blinding heat that would almost burn any skin that touched it.

There was not a lot of time.

Lightly, Cedric laid his hand upon Aeron’s chest, frowning as he began to focus. A bright white light began to glow around the area, intensifying as his hand slowly descended into the cavity. Cedric paid no mind as the Gryffindor Seeker shifted uncomfortably, though he was absently thankful that the younger boy could not feel the pain the process was emitting. All conscious thought faded, however, when his hand landed on Aeron’s magical core.

He could see it. It was larger than most, something that did not really surprise him, knowing the owner’s history. It was intensely bright, allowing him to see the two conflicting magics clearly. The gold was, without doubt, his wizard half, considering his ancestry, leaving the midnight blue to be his vampire side. The scowl on his face deepened as he studied the two colors. They were not fighting one another for dominance, as had appeared to be the case from outside view. In fact, it was obvious that they had not even gotten near one another since Aeron’s turning. It was as though there was a barrier between the two, keeping them from mixing. He pushed closer.

There was nothing there. Nothing that could keep the two halves apart, nothing that could be killing their host. It was just an empty void that would be filled when the two mixed…

Wait… what was that?

Cedric pushed closer to the core, squinting against its brightness, moving toward the apparently empty space. There it was again! A glitter of something red, something thin. He pushed closer still, brown eyes widening when he finally saw it.

A thin red beam, running across the magical core, effectively slicing it in half, effectively keeping the two magics from mixing. There was a green beam entwined around it, too, as though it were a serpent twisting itself around a blade…

Bloody hell.

“That’s it!” He cried softly. He instantly pulled himself from Aeron’s chest, darting forward to examine the lightning bolt scar still planted on his pale forehead, a smile forming on his face at the tinge of red light it held.

“I got it,” he whispered, pulling away and grabbing the raven-haired teen’s hand. “I got it!” He repeated, laying a gentle kiss on the cool skin.

“I know what to do.”

.T.

Lucius smiled sinisterly, cool blue eyes glittering as they slowly went around the confines of his study in Malfoy Manor.

His smile increased at the sight of a hooded figure moving toward him, their brown cloak sweeping about them as they kneeled to the floor in respect before rising. This was his favorite follower; his most faithful; his first. His eyes locked with their brown ones, a bit of excitement forming in his chest at the sight of the glitter within the dark pools.

“You have done it, then?” he inquired, tone pleased. The servant smirked, inclining their head in another show of respect before responding.

“It has been done as you requested, sire,” the figure, now obviously male, hissed reverently. Lucius felt himself tingle with pleasure.

“Excellent,” he voiced coolly, giving his nod of approval. When the man failed to take his leave, however, as he usually did, the blonde Death Eater frowned. “You have something more?”

He watched as his servant’s eyes shifted from side to side, interested as he reached within the pocket of his haggard robes, withdrawing a slightly beaten-up copy of The Daily Prophet.

“I was not sure if you had seen it or not, sire,” said the younger wizard as he handed it over. “It is yesterday’s copy. However, it has information on the front page I thought would interest you greatly.”

Lucius scanned over the article, news of Potter’s abuse at the hands of his relatives nothing new to him. His eyes widened, however, as they landed on the name of one of the people Rita Skeeter had interviewed, before narrowing dangerously.

“Thank you, my pet,” he purred, looking up to the deliverer. The wizard bowed once more before exiting the room, his service no longer required. The others in the room looked up curiously, and Lucius smiled at the sight of one.

“Avery,” he called, biting back a sneer as the man lumbered over. “My son is currently wandering the streets of Diagon Alley. Would you be so kind as to fetch him, and bring him back to me?” Avery offered no verbal response, but bowed and Apparated away instantly. The others shifted as Lucius sneered down at the paper, rage boiling inside of him. With a growl, he tossed it into the air, whipping out his wand immediately after.

“Incendium!”

.T.

Lord Voldemort massaged his pale temple with a sigh, crimson eyes closed, as though he hoped that if he were not to see the young man standing before him, said young man would disappear. Today had been for too trying of a day for the powerful wizard, and he was hardly in a mood to play games with his followers. However, this Death Eater was here for a something he could say he had honestly done, and thus, Voldemort had to answer for it.

But as he cracked one eye open to see the seething form of William Weasley, he found himself really not wanting to.

The defection of Arthur Weasley’s eldest son to his side had been a great victory against Dumbledore. In fact, it was the elderly wizard whom Voldemort had to thank for the talented young wizard. Bill was far more observant than any other witch or wizard that Albus had in his service, and was therefore knowledgeable of the way his former Headmaster actually did things. Coming to Mors Amor had not been an easy thing for the red-haired Curse Breaker to do, for he had been raised in a family who were loyal to one another, and it was the ultimate betrayal. He had assured himself it was worth it, if it meant a better, safer life for his family. His only condition was that his two youngest siblings – Ronald and Ginerva – not get involved.

And Voldemort was not exactly doing everything in his power to keep his little sister out of this war, and Bill knew it.

Thus explaining their current situation.

“What do you want from me, Bill?” Inquired the lord with another sigh. “An apology?”

“I want you to stop messing with Ginny’s head!” The other wizard growled, brown eyes flashing. “I don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing at, my lord.” Voldemort snorted slightly at the title, amused that he could be rude and respectful at the same time. “But I want Ginny left out of it.”

Voldemort arched an eyebrow at his follower, keeping his voice calm as he replied. “I think Ginny is old enough to make her own decisions, Mr. Weasley.” His voice held a slight warning, but, whether by choice or accidentally, the other didn’t pick it up.

“She doesn’t know what all of this entails!” He thundered. “She doesn’t know the horrors war creates – of the lasting effect it could have on your mind!”

“No matter how much you wish it to be otherwise, no one, not even your sister, will escape this war unscathed!” Hissed Voldemort, eyes flashing as he rose. A small surge of satisfaction welled up inside of him at the sight of the younger wizard cowering back slightly. “It will be impossible to remain neutral, and if she feels she has lost your support in her decision to join our side, chances are extremely high that she will side with Dumbledore.” He paused for a moment, letting this sink in, before finishing with a growled, “Is that what you want?”

“…… No.” Bill sighed, placing his head in his hands, much in the same fashion his lord had just demonstrated. The lord calmed himself enough to sit down, watching his follower carefully. “She’s just… too young to make this kind of commitment.”

“War forces people to grow up very fast, Mr. Weasley,” voiced Voldemort softly, leaning forward, catching Bill’s brown orbs with his blood red ones. “From what you tell me, and from what I have seen, Ginny has made her choice without the influence of any side. It was all purely her, and that is a rarity.”

“What do I do?” He finally asked, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Go to her,” said the wizard simply. “Go to her and repair the damage you have created before it is too late. She will forgive you, she still loves you. Perhaps it won’t be too late.” Bill looked up.

“You care for her,” he observed, and Voldemort smiled slightly.

“Let us just say that she is like a younger sister to me.” He stood abruptly, eyes widening a fraction as they focused on something in the back of the room. “Go.”

.T.

Draco had never felt such fear as he did now. With his upper arm caught painfully tight in Avery’s steel-like grip, and the surrounding wards in place blocking his magical use, there was truly no escape from the confines of Malfoy Manor, or the hellish nightmare that lay within it.

The blonde teenager offered no resistance to Avery as he began to pull him away, but the elder wizard felt the need to jam his wand into the Slytherin’s back anyway, as though to remind him who held the power in this situation. The fear in the pit of Draco’s stomach was growing in as he was pushed roughly down dark corridors he had not entered since he was a child. These corridors lead to Lucius’ private study – the place where he and Blaise were almost certain the blonde aristocrat was planning the rebellion against Lord Voldemort and Mors Amor. No matter Lucius’ intentions for having him brought down here, no good could come from this meeting. He would be tortured, either for his betrayal to The Daily Prophet, his coming refusal to join the mutiny, or both. His body practically shivered with the horrified anticipation of the Cruciatus Curse upon his bones and muscles once more.

A small bit of bitter irony filled him as he realized that Blaise was, once again, right.

He should not have come back.

The journey to the study, though it only took all of five minutes, was filled with so many twists and turns that Draco felt as though he had been at it for ages. His head was spinning by the time the large black oak door came into view, his stomach so upset that it took every ounce of self-restraint not to vomit right then and there. Avery did not bother knocking before entering, a move that was sure to result in punishment, and shoved Draco in ahead of himself for safety precautions.

Draco had to blink rapidly as the sudden bright light assaulted his unadjusted vision. As he struggled to compose himself, he took the small window of time to study his surroundings, and the other people in the room. They wore no masks, apparently not worried about him identifying him. His eyes widened at the sight of two figures standing by the door, his mouth going slightly agape, yet before he could utter a sound, Lucius’ cool, elegant voice floated through the room.

“Hello, Draco.” He whipped his head around to the side, seeing the majestic chair upon which his father sat, as though he were some sort of lord. The teen felt a small stab of annoyance as he bit out a response.

“Father.” Lucius smiled slyly at the address, rising from his chair. Draco cursed his feet as they took an involuntary step back. There were whispers and snickers from the surrounding people as the Malfoy patriarch approached his son, The Daily Prophet in his hand.

“You have disobeyed me, Draconis,” the dark wizard purred accusingly. The blonde’s body began to tingle, knowing what was coming next, and he offered no response to the allegation. Lucius’ face twisted slightly, and he lifted his wand. Unknown to the Hogwarts student, two wizards standing behind him did exactly the same thing.

“Crucio!” Draco was on the floor in a second, an unrestrained scream erupting from his lips. The pain was unimaginable, more abundant and sharper than it had ever been before. It felt as though every ounce of him was being shredded and then sown back together, only to have the process repeated. It was murder. Pure, utter murder.

And then it stopped.

Draco lay on his back, panting and shuddering, unabashed tears flowing down the sides of his face, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He winced as he felt the ground below him shudder with footsteps, cowering away slightly as Lucius kneeled beside his head.

“I am…willing to forgive this betrayal, Draco,” he whispered in a fatherly tone, stroking back the blonde’s sweaty locks. “Join me, and I promise that you shall never experience such pain again. You will be by my side, Draco, as my heir, to rule the Wizarding World when I am gone. What do you say?”

For a moment, Draco studied Lucius. His godfather had once told him that there had been a time when his father had been kind, when he had loved him and his mother more than anything in the world, and had shared Voldemort’s ideals.

But that man was gone now, and standing in his place was the Devil incarnate himself.

With what strength he could muster up, he lifted his head, and responded in a raspy voice.

“Long live Voldemort, and death to his betrayer.”

Lucius’ icy eyes hardened, and he stood up abruptly, nodding toward something that Draco could not see. Instantly, there was a burst of pain that made the Cruciatus Curse feel like nothing.

And then all went black.

.T.

“Who are you?” Lord Voldemort’s voice was neither harsh nor pleasant as he spoke to the figure standing in his study. Rather, his tone was more similar to that of someone who was speaking to an angel – too mystified to have any emotion, yet filled with every kind there was. He studied the youthful boy in front of him critically, the gnawing feeling a familiarity annoying him to no end. It only increased as the boy smirked.

“You don’t remember me, then?” He inquired, amused. He stepped further into the light, allowing Voldemort a better look at his face, smirk still in place as the elder wizard’s eyes doubled in size.

“The boy from the graveyard.” Cedric chuckled and came even closer, reaching a hand out to the man who had ordered his death just a month ago.

“Cedric Diggory. Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Voldemort looked down at the hand and then back up at Cedric, obviously not trusting him in the slightest.

“What are you doing here?” He demanded. Cedric’s smirk instantly faded, and his offered hand slowly fell to his side.

“I’m afraid that the reason of my presence is far from cheerful,” he said seriously. Voldemort cocked an eyebrow, emitting an impatient growl. “I am here on behalf of Harry Potter. Or, rather, Aeron Snape.”

Again, Voldemort stared. He knew that this… Cedric, had known Po – Aeron, but the fact that there was a dead boy in his manor, speaking to him about the son of one of his followers, who was currently at death’s door himself, was a little too much for him to take in at once.

“What about him?” He snarled, thinking of the grieving Severus who was, once again, sitting with the newborn vampire.

“I suppose you haven’t discovered what’s wrong with him, then?” The tone was still serious, but there was something within it, and Voldemort snarled. This boy knew something he wasn’t letting on. Something that would save Aeron, perhaps even tell them what was wrong in the first place.

“Tell me,” he hissed, crimson eyes flashing dangerously. Unimpressed, Cedric turned, and for one brief, frightful moment, Voldemort was sure he would just leave. But then the former wizard spoke, his explanation shocking the elder wizard more than anything had shocked him before.

“It’s you,” said the deceased boy simply, turning back around. “Or, rather, what you did to him. The dark magic you transferred into him when you tried to kill him is still there, creating a barrier that won’t allow his vampire and magic side to mix.”

“Wouldn’t it just mix with them as well?” He asked, but Cedric shook his head.

“It should, but the quantity is incomplete, thus the problem.” He took in a deep, unnecessary breath, and continued. “I came to you because you’re the only one who can save him. I warn you, though, it will be painful for you, and I’m not one hundred percent sure of the repercussions.”

Had this been any other situation, Voldemort would have refused right then and there, and probably Crucio the fool who suggested such a foolish notion. But something within him pushed to do as the boy suggested, an image of Severus flashing through his head.

“Tell me what to do.”

And Cedric smiled.

.T.

She was looking at it again, her personalized Dark Mark. Examining it with the same expression an artist wore when admiring a completed piece. She still saw the beauty in it she had seen when she had first created it. She still felt as connected to it emotionally as she had three days, when it had first appeared on her pale and otherwise flawless skin. Despite Bill’s terrifying reaction to seeing it, and then rift is had caused between them, she still loved the skull and snake design.

The question now was, could she go through with it?

Every time Ginny had envisioned herself going to the Dark Lord, every time she had seen herself facing him, demanding a spot among his arm, she had always seen Bill with her. Her beloved brother, the only one she thought would ever truly understand her. Her heart gave a painful little thump at the reminder of his harsh words.

Could she do it? Would she go to Lord Voldemort, without the support of the last living person who meant the world to her? Could she?

“Merlin, Harry, I wish you were here,” she whispered in a chocked voice, a solitary tear sliding down her face. A sudden, sharp knock on the door quickly drew her from her thoughts of angst, and she rid herself of the evidence of her crying.

“Just a moment!” She called, quickly pulling on her over-cloak to hide the Dark Mark. Taking in a deep breath, hoping to compose herself, Ginny opened the door, only to see the last person she ever expected standing in front of her.

“Ginny,” said Bill evenly, addressing her as one would a scared animal. “We need to talk.”

.T.

He couldn’t believe he was doing this.

As Voldemort glided down the halls of his manor toward the bedroom of his former arch enemy, thoughts of disbelief were running through his mind at a hundred miles per hour. This whole plan was ridiculous – there wasn’t even any guarantee it would work! Aeron could come back different, changed… evil. It was all so risky.

So why was he doing it?

“Cold you walk a little faster, by any chance?” Growled Cedric in annoyance from by his side. “We really don’t have a lot of time here.”

“Shut up,” Voldemort snapped back, though his feet unconsciously picked up the pace.

Who was he doing this for? Himself? Severus? Aeron? Granted, the boy was the son of his closest Death Eater, which automatically made him a citizen of Mors Amor, which granted him certain rights and privileges of Voldemort’s attention… But would it kill him if Aeron died? Would it truly bother him?

‘You know it would,’ hissed a voice inside of his head, causing him to scowl.

He really should get that checked out.

“Shit!” Cried Cedric softly, breaking out into a run as they neared the master guestroom. Pulled from his thoughts, Voldemort looked up.

Severus was standing in front of the bedroom door, face so white one would think him dead, obsidian eyes filled with tears that refused to fall. The distress radiating off of the man was so apparent that a blind person would have noticed it. When they locked eyes, Voldemort was surprised to see the man’s shoulders tremble slightly – not from anger or fear, but from pain so extreme that it was practically bursting from the Potions Master’s body.

“What’s going on?” He demanded, paying Cedric no mind as the boy slipped into the room. Severus simply continued to stare at him, before turning his gaze back toward the doorway, just as Andromeda came out. “What’s going on?” Voldemort asked once more, and the witch gave a sorrowful sigh, sparing Severus a glance before replying.

“The… the stability spell I cast is no longer effective,” she said softly, looking down. “He won’t last through the night.” Voldemort was stunned.

“Get in here!” Cried Cedric, appearing at the doorway. The lord looked at his two forlorn followers in surprise, and Cedric explained impatiently. “They can’t see or hear me, so don’t worry. Just get in here! He’s dying.”

As though bewitched, Voldemort brushed past Andromeda and walked into the room, crimson eyes resting on the sickly form of the young Vida vampire. Cedric was hovering around anxiously, eyes darting back and forth between Voldemort and Aeron with unnatural speed. With noiseless steps, the wizard approached the bed, sitting himself on the side, taking a moment to examine the dying, beautiful creature.

“Just put you arm-,” began Cedric, but Voldemort waved him off.

“I know,” he said softly. Gently, with the tenderness usually seen between a mother and her child, the lord lifted Aeron so that he was resting against his chest, cradling him with the utmost care. By now, Severus and Andromeda had entered, and were watching the scene avidly, wanting to protest, but unable to find their voices.

Still in a bewitched state, Voldemort lifted his right arm to the clasp on his robe, and with one swift jerk, opened his wrist, not so much as wincing at the pain. With equal slowness, he brought his wrist to the vampire’s mouth, waiting patiently for the teen to take the initiative.

“May you drink this blood,” he said softly. “So that it may correct my wrong unto you, and you may live.”

And with these words, Aeron stirred slightly, as though waking from a trance. Voldemort pushed his arm toward his mouth encouragingly, and it was all the permission the still unconscious vampire needed. Before anyone could blink, Aeron’s mouth was on the supposed Dark Lord’s wrist, drinking with more thirst than any vampire had ever done.

Oh, the pain! It was tremendous, worse than Cedric had described. But there was an odd pleasure there, too, that kept Voldemort from retracting his arm. It was like he was drunk and experiencing the Cruciatus – knowing there was pain, but unable to care. He threw his head back as Aeron continued to drink, wanting it to stop, yet never wanting it to end.

‘Pull back now,’ said a voice within his head. ‘Pull back, lest you poison him more.’ And he did.

Voldemort found himself back in the master guestroom, Aeron still in his arms, Andromeda and Severus still watching in awe. Cedric was smiling, gazing down at the vampire fondly.

“He’ll be fine now,” he whispered. Voldemort, too, looked down, the bewitchment gone, just as Aeron’s midnight eyes cracked open. For a moment, the two former enemies stared at one another, before Aeron cracked open his blood-caked mouth, and croaked out a question no one could answer.

“What the bloody hell is going on?”

.T.

A groan escaped Draco’s mouth as he slowly came to, a shuddering cry of pain emitting from his lips as he attempted to move. He couldn’t see very well – wherever he was, was incredibly dark, damp, and cold.

He turned his head to the side, gasping as it screamed in protest, hoping to figure out where he was, only to see the most horrifying sight that would leave him nightmares for years to come.

For by his side, resting in an odd position on the floor, was the lifeless body of Narcissa Malfoy.

TBC

FINALLY! COMPLETED! That took ages to write! I couldn’t get there characters to do what I wanted them to do –pouts… then shrugs- But it’s DONE!

This chapter started on my computer, Mr. Joe. However, Mr. Joe (being very, very old) chose to, during this time, go poof! –glares- So, then I used the Dining Room computer (who does not deserve a name), who decided that it was too good for Microsoft Word right in the middle of Severus’ angst part. So it shut down. Thankfully, however, my brother’s computer, Mr. Ego –snorts- has M.W. and is nice. And my brother was kind enough to move it to my room so I could finish this chapter (I think he just got tired of my begging). –giggles- So, applaud Mr. Ego and Mr. Brother, for without them, there would be no chapter.

Notes

I really didn’t like killing off Narcissa. I like stories where she and Draco have that strong mother/son relationship. But, alas, it was necessary for future plots for it to be done. . 

The reason Andromeda and Severus couldn’t see Cedric at the end is because if he goes to see a person who is conscious, he is visible only to them. However, if the person he goes to see is asleep, he is visible to anyone he happens across. o.O Perhaps I should have him invest in an Invisibility Cloak…

Next Chapter: Revolves completely around Aeron, now that he is awake (and he shall stay that way for while. He’s no fun unconscious). Includes Aeron’s birthday and transformation, along with ‘lessons’ and Mors Amor. Some strengthening in his relationship with Severus, and breaking the ice with Voldemort. Also, Dumbledore picks a new ‘Golden Boy’, and Hermione makes her horrendous mistake (it wouldn’t fit in this chapter.) AND SIRIUS AND REMUS FINALLY MAKE THEIR PROMISED APPEARANCE… by demanding an audience with Severus Snape himself.

There will be other things to, but you get the gist. 

Ok, I have to get up for school in six hours, and I still have to post this, do my homework (hehe), and watch Gilmore Girls and Supernatural (which I cleverly recorded).

See you later!

-Brit

(p.s.) Big surprises for you lot in February. –beams-


	7. Melancholy's Sorrow

  
Author's notes: [HPLV slash]AU summer before OotP. Severitus. The summer is the usual for everyone...until Severus finds Harry on his bedroom floor, beaten and not breathing. Dumble's been keeping secrets, and they're about to be found out.Vamp,Dark Harry. New chapter up  


* * *

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Lord Voldemort, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. To elaborate further, I also do not intend this fanfiction to be any form of slander, nor do I make profit from it. 

Chapters: (7/18) yes, that’s new, isn’t it? –grin-

Notes: It’s been a while, ne? –wink- Let’s see what we’ve got going here …Hey! Heard about that Harry Potter Amusement Park? Wanna go? –wink-

Warnings: Slash, AU, language, violence, character bashing, character manipulation, mentions and flash backs of child abuse (which I do not condone in any way, shape, or form).

Chapter Seven

‘That pawn goes… there. And that one, there… oh, no! Wrong move. Fine. Sacrifice that knight… move that bishop… damn! OK, have to move the Queen, now. No choice. Oh, no, no! Not again!’

“Check mate!” Hermione scowled darkly at her beaming best friend, having lost the third game of chess in a row. Her pieces were shouting obscene comments to her as they were, once again, magically resurrected and moving back into position. They’d been playing the game since five o’clock that morning, neither able to find sleep.

“You kept that piece hidden the whole time,” she accused, nodding toward the figure the redhead held in his hand. Ron nodded enthusiastically, continuing to beam as he put the piece back onto its spot.

“I kept you distracted with the others,” he explained. “While I moved that one into position. It’s simply called ‘Distraction’. People use it in actual battles, you know. Works like a charm on a mess.” Hermione studied the pieces thoughtfully, trying to put Ron’s explanation into a strategy for the next game, when the taller boy stood. She looked up in surprise, watching as he made his way toward his bedroom window, blues eyes watching the descending sun with intensity.

“Ron?” She called questioningly, rising as well, ignoring the comments the chess figurines were shouting at her as she gazed concernedly toward her friend.

“Harry’s dead, Hermione,” he said with soft bluntness, not turning around to face her, and thus missing the shocked look that formed instantly on her face. He whirled around, an odd glint in his eyes. “Harry’s dead, and someone needs to take his place in the war.”

“Ron, what are you going on about?” Pleaded the brunette desperately, moving forward a few steps. He looked up, as if only having just remembered she was there, and within a flash, was right in front of her, her shoulders clasped tightly in his hands.

“Would you support me, Hermione?” He demanded, eyes flashing. Hermione, not understanding his question, struggled to release herself from his grip.

“Ron, stop it!” She hissed. “You’re scaring me.” But he refused to comply.

“The Wizarding World needs another savior, ‘Mione,” he whispered again. “I’ve be been contemplating this all day, since I got a letter from Dumbledore.”

“What letter?” Inquired the younger Gryffindor, honestly confused. But Ron waved off her question with a jerk of his chin.

“Would you support me if I were the One?” He repeated, grip tightening, gaze slightly wild.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Thought Hermione as she stared up at her best friend. ‘Why is he acting like this? Is it some belated grief?’ “You know that I will always support you in whatever you do, Ron,” she promised aloud in a soft tone. This seemed to appease him, for he smiled brilliantly at her, and loosened his grasp on her now aching shoulders. With a sigh of relief, Hermione turned back toward the chess set. “Now, let’s play again. I think I got the perfect strategy-.”

“We can’t,” interrupted Ron, looking positively scandalized. Hermione frowned in confusion. “We have to see Dumbledore.”

“What for?”

“Why, to tell him I want to try.” Hermione looked down, only to have her chin caught by Ron’s thumb and index finger. He lifted her face toward him, cerulean eyes bearing into her heavily as he spoke. “We need to do this for Harry, Hermione. He would want that dark bastard gone for good.”

Slowly, the intelligent witch nodded, neither she nor Ron catching sight of the smirking bishop Ron had held in his hand just moments before.

.T.

It was dark. Darker than he could ever recall dark being. It were as though he was floating in the middle of a bottomless abyss, embraced in its lightless arms, cradled against its cold, heartless chest. His lithe body shivered violently from the chill, and though he opened his mouth, nothing would come out.

Where was he? And where was everyone else? His father. Voldemort. Even Merelda’s pesky form could not be spotted, though the looming witch had always been close by.

“Harry.”

Aeron’s body froze at the whispered name, his back rigid, his mind sharp. No one in Mors Amor referred to him as ‘Harry’.

“Har-ry.”

Taunting, singing, a façade of innocence. He knew the voice without seeing the face – should have known it instantly. One did not normally forget that which had destroyed their own innocence with one single, brutal action.

“Harry.”

And there he was, standing before him, as proud and cocky as ever – Vernon Dursley. His beady eyes were alight with glee, a devilish smirk spreading grotesquely across his obese face. Aeron slowly backed away.

“Please,” he whispered softly, pleadingly. This wasn’t right. Severus had killed them, hadn’t he? Or had it all been a dream? Some twisted fantasy his mind had created as a haven from the wrath of his relatives? Vernon’s hand reached out, meaty finger stretching for him. “Please. Please don’t.”

“Aeron!”

The vampire’s eyes snapped open as his body jerked painfully forward, a startled cry emitting from his lips. Sweat beaded down his forehead, his breathing so labored his lungs were already tired. His eyes darted around desperately, searching for the figure of his uncle, fully expecting to find himself on the floor of Dudley’s second bedroom, or locked up in his cupboard. However, all that greeted his anxious gaze were the soft gray confines of his room at Mors Amor.

“Aeron?”

The voice, soft, melodic, with gentle tones intended to soothe and not startle. He could hear the concern that laced through Cedric’s voice, could feel the specter’s urge to reach out for him. And then it all came rushing back. Two days previous. The small, fine line between life and death that he had suddenly tripped over – the combination of the vampiric beverage and his magic, which had already been tainted with dark misleadings by Voldemort’s hand. Waking up with his father’s murderer’s blood trickling down his throat, in the arms of said murderer. The inquisitions from both his father and Andromeda that had grated fatally on his last nerve, and the headache that had followed after he had requested that they leave.

“A nightmare,” he intoned softly, releasing himself from his constricting comforter so that he could stand. His companion said nothing as he moved to stand by his window, resting his head against the cool glass as he gazed upon the dark gray sky, seeking solace from the dreary weather. Rain lightly pelted the thick glass of the window, soothing his troubled mind, its coolness easing the pounding in his head. A soft sigh escaped his pale lips.

He was unsurprised when Cedric came to stand behind him.

“Do you have nightmares like this often?” He inquired gently, and Aeron could not contain his bitter scoff.

“Often?” He retorted sharply. “I haven’t been away from hell long enough for me to often recall it in my sleep, Cedric.” He closed his eyes, wincing as the image of his uncle produced itself once more. He didn’t want to speak of this. “Has my father stopped by?”

“You were sleeping.” Cedric had obviously picked up on the topic change, and was apparently willing to go along with it unprotesting. “He only looked through the door. Honoring your wish to remain alone, as any father would do.” This was said pointedly, which was not lost on the young Vida. “I can sense your apprehension, Aeron. You promised to give them a chance.”

“And I also told you it would be difficult,” the raven-haired teen snapped back. Withdrawing himself away from the glass, he turned to stare his ghostly friend in the eye. “My father was one thing, Voldemort is something else entirely. I understand that here,” he waved his hand toward the landscape outside the window. “He is a hero. But to me, he is still the monster who murdered my father and a woman who died protecting me. He is still the monster that has tried to kill me, and the one who ordered your own execution. Or have you forgotten that little detail?”

“All is not as it seems,” Cedric stated, the same words he had been saying at their every meeting, which the younger greeted with a snort of disgust. Cedric ignored it. “Aeron, you know that the past fourteen years of your life have been built on nothing but lies. Lies you now know the truth of.” He inched closer until his silvery brown eyes were mere millimeters away from Aeron’s cobalt blue ones. “You have every right to be mistrusting, with what you’ve been through. You shouldn’t be begrudged the time needed to deal with what happened to you, or with the animosity between you and the people who live here.” His expression turned sorrowful. “However, that is time you do not have. You must fight your fear, Aeron, and make allies of misdiagnosed enemies before it is too late.”

He sighed now, as though he were to unleash a heavy burden that had weighed down on his shoulders since the beginning of time. “There is a battle coming, Aeron. One no one of either side is expecting, one you won’t see coming. You can’t fight it alone.”

Aeron’s eyes flashed. “I’m tired of battles, Cedric,” he said wearily. “I just want a normal life. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. A normal life.”

“I know.” And then he reached up his shimmering hand toward the younger wizard’s face. Aeron, not expecting the movement, flinched viciously, expecting a blow. However, all that his fragile skin felt was the icy aura that surrounded what had once been a warm, living arm. Slowly, Aeron opened his eyes, once more locking them with Cedric’s.

“Believe me, I know.”

.T.

Ginny stared up at the ceiling from atop Bill’s dark red, leather sofa, unmoving, barely breathing. Simply thinking. Her eldest brother had brought her here last night, but despite his promise, words had barely passed between them on their journey to his rented flat just outside London. In vain, she had tried desperately to strike up some form of conversation – anything that she could think of, even if it didn’t have to do with Harry, her Dark Mark, or Voldemort. However, more frivolous topics, such as her desire to be able to bring a puppy to Hogwarts instead of the permitted familiars, or wondering when the next Quidditch Broom was going to come out, only seemed to make Bill all the more upset.

By the time they had reached his flat, she had given up trying, and had fallen asleep on his bed whilst he had taken the couch.

He was in the shower now, and had been for the past thirty minutes. The breakfast she had skillfully prepared for them was growing cold on the counter – she knew her attempt at breaking the ice was disappearing right along with the meal’s heat. Unwittingly, her freckled face screwed up in anger.

Why couldn’t Bill simply talk to her? Even if he hated her for what she had done, and what she wanted, he could at least spare her a few words. Even if they were shouted with enough ferocity to rival a Howler, or spoken so softly that his fury would burn through her veins, she would take them. Anything other than this sorrowful dance of silence they were waltzing to.

She heard him then, before she saw him, and glanced to the side. He was clothed in gloomy dark clothing – black dress pants and a dark, thin gray dress shirt. His hair, as ever, was pulled back in a loose ponytail, his fang earring glittering in the early-morning sunrays that streamed through the window. His black dragon-hide boots clicked menacingly against the floor as he walked by her without a word. There had once been a time when Ginny had admired him for this expressionless talent.

Now, however, she resented it.

Mocha eyes stared with barely contained annoyance as Bill entered the kitchen, sparkling slightly as he started at the sight of breakfast, before burning once more when he turned away from it. There was only so much she could take. The events of the past week were sadly swarming upon her, breaking her resistance down, and the next thing she knew, she was up from the sofa and striding determinedly toward the kitchen, slamming the refrigerator he had opened closed, nearly taking his head off in the act.

“Are you trying to avoid me?” She all but shrieked. He stared at her, startled.

“Why would I bring you here if I did?” He pressed softly, and her eyes flashed wildly as she emitted a little laugh.

“Only Merlin knows, Bill, because I sure as hell don’t,” she growled. “I was under the impression that we were supposed to talk, but you haven’t said more than ten words to me since last night, and they were all just now!” She backed up, waving toward the plates of food in hysterical despair. “I made breakfast for us to try to make you less mad at me. Obviously, however, you’re not mad – you’re furious.” She looked down. “Is that why you brought me here, Bill? You called the Ministry about me, and they’re sending Dementors. This place is so much more convenient than home – at least Mum won’t have to watch her only daughter get carted off to Azkaban, right?” She looked up, noticing Bill’s shock at the tears in her eyes but not commenting. She was surprised by them herself. “That’s it, isn’t it?” She inquired at his lack of protest. “That’s why you’re not speaking with me.” She turned away, the tears that had been forming suddenly threatening to spill hotly from her eyes.

“Ginny.”

And then he was beside her, hand resting on her shoulder, guiding her back toward the living room. With gentle words, he had her sitting, and magically conjured a chair to sit in front of her. He held tightly to her hand as he waited for her to calm herself, rubbing soothing circles into her hand.

“There are no Dementors coming, Ginny,” he said gently as her tears began to recess. “I didn’t call the Ministry on you, because they would then have to arrest me, as well.”

“I – What?” His words confused her, and she now looked at him with a puzzled expression. He smiled at her grimly, and then grabbed his shirtsleeve that covered his left wrist, and slowly pulled it up.

And a burning, twistedly majestic Dark Mark greeted her curious eyes.

Her gaze flew up to him in surprise, and he nodded slowly, holding up a hand before she could say a word.

“I joined Voldemort the day after he came back,” he said softly. “I had lived through the First War. I saw what it had done, and who had done it. I saw Dumbledore send witches and wizards into battle with no regard for their lives, whilst watching Voldemort protect some of his men with his own body. I saw our mother cry over the deaths of our uncles, whilst all Dumbledore did was apologize and leave. When Voldemort returned, and I saw Dumbledore’s interaction with Harry after the Fourth Task, I just knew.”

“And yet … And yet you denied me the same choice?” Ginny questioned after a moment, staring at him in disbelief. Bill ducked his head.

“You’re young, Ginny. Even you can’t deny it. I wanted to spare you this. War is not romantic in any way.”

“I know that,” his sister admitted with a sigh. “I know that. I know the horrors of what lies ahead. I’ve lost friends at school, and now Harry. But I’m starting to see different shades, Bill. Different lights on things. Things I want to be a part of.”

“Which is why I’m agreeing to allow you to do this,” the red-haired Curse Breaker spoke. “I know now that this is a war in which no one can escape. At least now I know you’ll be on a side that will offer you protection. We’ll speak with Lord Voldemort.” Ginny’s eyes lit up. “But not today.” Once more, he held up his hand against her protests, and then offered her a roguish smile.

“Today, it’s just about us. And we start with that breakfast.”

But for some reason, as Ginny followed her brother to the kitchen, the light that should have been shining on her face was not, as an image of the bruised-face Draco Malfoy flashed through her mind.

.T.

Lucius Malfoy was not a patient man – far from it. Even in his very early childhood, he would wait for nothing, driving his nannies and other caretakers to the brink of exhaustion with his sometimes impossible, incessant demands. It was a vice that his father was extremely proud of, and was therefore one that had grown into the cruelty that was now known simply as “The Slytherin Lord”. Renowned for his harsh temper, brutal tactics, and obviously, stiff patience for anything slow.

Which was why Peter Pettigrew was currently writhing on the floor at his feet.

“As you can see,” the blonde aristocrat purred to small, cloaked group surrounding him. “I will tolerate no withhold of information that could be beneficial to our uprising, as Wormtail here is guilty of.” With a disgusted look, Lucius pulled back his wand, effectively ending the Cruciatus curse that had assaulted his follower’s body. Placing it with care back into his robe pocket, the wizard moved forward, kneeling beside Wormtail’s quivering body, positioning his mouth next to the animagus’ ear.

“Wormtail, Wormtail, Wormtail,” he spoke softly – soothingly. “Why will you not tell me what it is I wish to hear?”

“Perhaps,” hissed a voice from the side, and Lucius favored the dark figure with a glance. “He still feels loyalty to the snake.”

Ahhhh.

“Is that it, Wormtail?” He whispered. “Have you decided to return to Voldemort, after all that he has done to you – after all that I have done for you?”

“N-No, my lord!” The man squeaked in a rat-like voice. Lucius winced and pulled away. “It is just … the news! The news! I don’t think that you will like it, master.” The crowd that surrounded them began to murmur, their shock apparent, whilst a slow, twisted smile formed on Lucius’ face.

“That is not for you to determine, Wormtail. Imperio!” The curse gave no warning – the crowd fell silent, having not even seen Lucius pull out his wand. The animagus’ eyes instantly grew vacant, his body slack aside from the occasional twitch by nerve damage. The blonde sneered, patience having disappeared long before the attack. “Tell me,” he growled. “What I want to know.”

“Dumbledore plans to replace Potter.” Wormtail’s voice was uncharacteristically monotone. Once again, the crowd began to talk amongst themselves. “With Ronald Weasley. He is to send Ronald Weasley against Lord Voldemort.”

And Lucius’ eyes glimmered. Waving his wand, he ended the curse, not even bothering to threaten his followers as chaos quickly broke out. So, Dumbledore had found a new Golden Boy with which to preoccupy his mind?

“Perfect.”

Four floors below, in the Malfoy Manor’s illegal dungeons, Draco sat upon the cold stone floor, his mother’s head cradled in his lap, eyes flashing dangerously as his fingers lightly ran through her hair. A slight pop! signified the departure of the house-elf Milfy, his news still ringing in Draco’s ears.

Perfect.

.T.

His back hurt.

Such a revelation made Aeron’s mouth curl in distaste as he slowly made his way to the Mors Amor sitting room, Merelda silent as she walked beside him, watching. He had truly begun to expect too much, even in the short time that he had been here, if he was beginning to notice and mind a small bit of discomfort. It was not too long ago that such a small amount of pain would have been a godsend if it replaced the torture that was constantly upon his body.

“Master Severus will join you in a moment,” Merelda spoke up as they entered the grand room. She shot by him quickly, darting over to a particularly long, plush chair, upon which there was already a thick, silken pillow and a large, bright-blue blanket. Aeron greeted the sight with revulsion, the thought of laying down once more making his stomach churn unpleasantly. Her clear eyes glared at him pointedly from wrinkled skin, and though in all technicality Aeron was the stronger of the two, he found himself obeying her wordless command, though with as little enthusiasm as he could muster.

“Don’t be such a child,” was all the old witch said, in a tone that suggested she was used to repeating the words over and over again throughout her life. And with that, she left him, throwing a warning glance over her small shoulder to assure him that she would know if he tried to move.

And it was the first time Aeron felt truly alone since he had arrived at Mors Amor.

It was an odd feeling. No Cedric ghosting around, keeping a comforting presence on his shoulder. No father to loom around, hovering between the edges of paternal and cruel. No Voldemort to peek around the corners and have Aeron all the more certain he was living in The Twilight Zone with his insanely considerate advice and life-saving … blood.

‘Best not to think about that at the moment,’ the logical side of his brain advised, and he could almost picture McGonagall patting his shoulder patronizingly.

‘Another voice argued, sound eerily like a younger version of Severus Snape.

‘Because it’s too … odd,’the first voice argued.

‘A scoff. ‘I’d say the whole damn thing is “odd”. Odd one: dead, then alive. Odd two: Snape’s kid. Odd three: Vampire. Life-giving vampire, to be more precise. That should count as two … Anyway, I’ve gotten through all that and accepted it. So what’s wrong with realizing ol’ Lord Voldemort might be just a nice guy?’

‘Hello! Voldemort’s been trying to kill you since you were a baby! He wants you dead!’

‘Says who?’the other voice roared back with such ferocity that Aeron actually grimaced. ‘Dumbledore? And I suppose he’s the one to start listening to, eh?’

‘…’

‘The voice was smug, as though they had just won a vicious, turn-of-the-war battle. Aeron, however, felt as though he had just been a spectator whose choice had been made for him.

“Aeron?” Cobalt eyes shot to entryway, and the young vampire’s body relaxed slightly at the sight of his father. Where Harry Potter had once seen Severus Snape as hollow-faced, oily, and angry, Aeron saw his father has elegant, expressionless, with fine hair that now matched his own. The revelation of changed opinions did not surprise Aeron as much as it should have as his father ambled toward him, obsidian eyes alight with concern.

“How are you feeling?” Severus inquired lightly, brushing a hand against his forehead lightly, searching for heat. Aeron leaned into the touch briefly, before pulling back, embarrassed at the reaction.

“Fine,” he stated softly, looking down, and therefore missing the raise of his father’s eyebrows.

“Really?” The voice was surprised. “Normally, on the eve of their first transformation, Vida vampires have been known to feel somewhat uncomfortable. Are you certain that you feel no discomfort?” And despite himself, Aeron flushed.

“Well, my back is twinging a little,” he admitted softly. “My arms are stiff, as well, and my legs are starting to seize up.” He looked up now, watching his father nod as if such information had been expected. A thought occurred to him. “You will be there, right?” Inwardly, he cursed the childish tone in his voice, convinced he sounded like an orphan who wanted to spend Christmas with any random family he or she could find. A quick glance at his father revealed that he, too, was surprised.

“Of course,” the once snarky Potions Master promised. “A father does not normally tend to miss the birthday of his only son.”

‘Not that I would know anything about that,’ the young vampire thought bitterly. Almost instantly, he shoved the thought out of his head before unwanted images began to accompany it. ‘Thoughts better left for another time.’ He mentally growled, and then changed the subject“This … transformation. It’s not going to painful, is it? Like the first time?”

“No,” Severus said quickly, and then paused, thinking better of it. “Well, you will certainly feel it, I can assure you. But it will be nothing compared to …” He drew off, though Aeron knew exactly what he was thinking.

‘Again, thoughts left for another time,’ he thought bitterly, pleading with his father’s mind to agree. Whether the telepathy worked or not, Severus seemed to feel the same.

“Your eyes will change colors again.”

“Again?” Aeron’s cry was indignant. “Bloody – one day, someone’s going to be stupid and ask me what color my eyes are, and I’m the one who is going to look stupid when I pull out a mirror to check!” He snorted sarcastically, disgusted with the prospect of chameleon eyes, whilst the corner’s his father’s mouth tugged slightly out.

“Only whenever you transform,” he added, an amused undertone lacing his voice. “Otherwise, they’ll stay as they are now. When you do transform, however, they’ll be the color of – well …” and once more, Severus drew off, as though deciding that information could be offered later. “You’ll enjoy the end effects, I promise.”

And though any other teenager would have protested being denied information they wanted, Aeron could only force himself to hold back a smile at the sound of one in his father’s voice. He had heard such tones from Mr. Weasley when he spoke to his sons, and even now, could not understand their annoyance with it. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and savor the moment – a normal moment, shared with the father he had longed for.

And then a sharp hiss jerked Aeron out of his reverie, and he watched, alarmed, as the older vampire leaned forward, expression that of annoyed pain, mouth set in a line Harry Potter had known all-too-well.

“Are you alright?” He pressed anxiously, already peeling back the thick blanket. “Should I go get someone?” But his father simply held up a hand, slowly bringing his head up, eyes bright with frustration.

“I am perfectly fine,” he snarled, and Aeron jerked back, startled by the ferocity of the tone. Obviously seeing this, his father calmed. “Let’s just say Dumbledore took a leaf out of Lord Voldemort’s book about marking his follower’s.” An image of the Dark Mark on Karkaroff’s arm flashed through Aeron’s mind. “I’m being summoned. I must go before it gets any worse.” And then he stood, and though his face was expressionless, his eyes were beaming as they gazed down upon his son. “I’ll be back tonight. I promise. Until then, try getting some exercise for your body. It will help.”

And then he strode from the room, no doubt in search of the closest Apparation platform. And Aeron was once again cast into the same solitary feeling he had been in when he had first entered the room. Only this time, it wasn’t as welcoming. It was almost … foreboding …

‘I’ve got it!’The sound of the first voice echoed throughout his troubled mind, and he nearly jumped. ‘You can’t trust Voldemort! He killed your father!’

Well … yes. There was that.

.T.

“He must be told!”

“I am afraid that that is absolutely out of the question.”

There had been a time in his life where Cedric’s parents had informed him that the afterlife was stress free – that everything that was bothering him at home, school, and work would not exist once he was dead. Because after his death, he would be in Heaven, under God’s care, where the worries of the mortal world were nonexistent. 

However, his parents, no doubt, had not expected his death to be so soon into his young life. Nor had they probably expected that their son, being as closely tied to the Chosen One as he was, would be charged with the afterlife task of leading Aeron Servarius Snape onto to his new destiny.

Such a task that was, indeed, hard enough without his “superiors” taking the reins over his friend’s destiny.

When Cedric had first learned that he would be working alongside the Four Founders, he had not been surprised – rather, he had spent two days simply watching them in awe, and had to be constantly reminded of his responsibilities. The shock had worn off quickly enough, however, once it became apparent that they were more concerned with the “greater good” than they were with Aeron’s well being. As it was, Helga Hufflepuff was the only Founder that Cedric could stand, and that was only because she was the least outspoken of the quartet.

Despite the fact that she happened to be the one he was arguing with right now.

“Aeron needs to know what’s going to happen – I should have known what was going to happen!” He snarled viciously at the blonde-haired woman, whose hazel eyes simply glared back in response. “This is nothing compared to the dangers you had me warn him about. He won’t be prepared for it!”

“And how would you know that?” Inquired Rowena Ravenclaw, approaching the duo, obviously having listened in on the entire conversation. “He has always come through before, even when the odds were stacked high against him.” Salazar Slytherin began to sneak close. Cedric’s hands flew up in frustration.

“Against a man who has no real desire to kill!” Did these morons understand nothing? “This is completely different! Aeron won’t even know he’s in a battle! He’ll be manipulated, destroyed …”

“Killed?” Salazar offered, smirking as the apparition threw him a murderous glare. Rowena watched the exchange coldly.

“You’re in love with him.” She said this so suddenly that Cedric had no time to form an adequate comeback. No time to form any sort of defense. He simply stared at her with the expression of a deer caught in Muggle headlights. Helga’s gaze went cool; Salazar’s smirk slid from his face instantly. “You can’t even deny it.”

“Should I?” His voice was weary, and he suddenly felt the fatigue ghosts should not have. Deny his love for Aeron? He couldn’t. He had been attracted to the boy the second he had become a Champion in the Tri-Wizard Tournament. His feelings had only grown as the year deepened – he had even held back a blush at the suggestion of the bath for the Second Task. He had ignored how right it had felt to help him in the Third Task, to take the Cup with him. His emotions had strengthened after his death, when he had seen Aeron in the afterlife.

Love had not been a word he had used to describe what he had felt. But once the word had left Rowena’s mouth, it had just clicked. It felt … perfect.

“Preposterous!”

The bite of the word that flew out of Helga’s mouth startled him. She was glaring at him heatedly now – all three of them were. Salazar was sneering.

“It appears,” he stated lowly. “That your time as Aeron Snape’s Guardian is drawing to a close.” Cedric blinked.

“What?”

“It was dangerous to have you on in the first place, given your history with him already,” Rowena explained patronizingly. “However, given the circumstances surrounding his life, it was decided that someone he was familiar with would be best. That was why we brought in you.”

“But now your feelings have changed,” Helga growled, sounding furious. “They’ve deepened. No Guardian has ever been allowed to stay on once they have fallen for the charge they are guiding.” The former Hogwarts student could not believe what he was hearing.

“And who are you going to get to replace me?” He demanded desperately. Rowena sighed.

“I think … we all have thought … that it is time Aeron be left to his own devices.” Cedric’s eyes went wide, and then narrowed at the thought of the raven-haired teen being left alone at such a time as what he was going through now.

“I refuse,” he stated bluntly, his entire body tense with rage. “He is more vulnerable now than he has ever been before. I need to protect him --.”

“Cedric.”

The voice that cut his off was paternally firm, filled with understanding, and the same undertone of fury that was currently racing in his veins. He allowed his eyes to stray to the giant form that was Godric Gryffindor, just barely flinching under the intensity of his dark blue gaze. The eldest Founder had done his best to stay away from the work they had put into shaping his heir’s path of destiny, stepping up only when he felt that the trio was getting out of line. However, the hope Cedric had felt that this was one of those times was instantly squashed as Godric drew him away from the other three.

“Don’t ask me to do this,” he pleaded, and the Founder sighed.

“Now of all times is not the time to be selfish, Cedric,” the brunette man said gently. “Your path with Aeron was to run parallel, but never join. You knew that the moment you entered the graveyard.” Cedric looked away. “You may return at sunset to say your farewells, and then you must return to Heaven, for your job will be done here. I assure you,” he added, seeing the younger prepare to protest. “That he will be just fine without a guardian.”

“How do you know?” Cedric inquired sorrowfully. “How could you possibly know?”

“Because,” Godric sighed, glancing toward the others with an expression Cedric could not quite place. “For Aeron Snape, there is another.”

And though it was true that this, Cedric had known for quite some time, his heart could not help but shatter.

.T.

He felt juvenile. Eavesdropping was definitely something only children partook in, and he was most certainly not a child. But, then again, this was his home. Certainly one was entitled to hear the conversation of others in their own home.

Lord Voldemort was proud of his second senior Death Eater – though, granted, he was not entirely sure that he was happy that it had taken Aeron being at death’s door to get Severus to open up to his son. Then again, it had done a world of good. Severus had not snapped at the boy; had even been fatherly toward him, something the tall man was nearly certain he couldn’t be. The interaction between father and son had been almost too artistic too watch, but yet he had been unable to look away. That such a moment had been broken by Dumbledore’s call enraged him.

Crimson eyes now studied the young Vida vampire unblinking. Aeron Snape was so very different from the Harry Potter he had grown to hate. He looked more mature, an effect of his turning. Vidas were known to age differently than humans, but in a variation of their own. Some adult Vidas still held the mentality of a child, whilst younger ones were known to be wiser than even the eldest of witches and wizards, as seemed to be the case with Aeron. His posture practically screamed a victim of tragedy, his eyes nothing but soul as they stared out into his deep, endless sea of thoughts. His pale face, flawed only by his infamous lightning bolt scar, was troubled. Despite himself, Voldemort was somewhat enraptured with poetry of the vampiric teen.

“Can I help you?”

Aeron’s voice startled the wizard lord from his musings, and he returned to reality only to find his eyes locked with Aeron’s. Apparently he had inched into the light whilst thinking. There was no animosity in the vampire’s tone, but there was apprehension in his eyes – uncertainty. Uncertainty of what Voldemort would do, or what he wanted.

And the once-called “dark lord” was forced to remember why he had come here in the first place. A suggestion to be made to Severus, that now seemed all the more important to be offered from himself.

“Your father – James,” he clarified, and noticed Aeron tense all the more. “His grave, along with that of Lily Potter, remains at Godric’s Hollow. I was wondering if perhaps that would be a place you would like to visit?”

“Wouldn’t that be a tad conspicuous of you?” Ah, a mind like a steel trap. So refreshing from the unintelligent ramblings of the children of today. Lord Voldemort couldn’t help the slight grin that split across his face.

“The area has been deserted since … that night. Other than on your funeral, that is. I have people patrolling it to make sure that Dumbledore does not go in and desecrate it.” He noticed Aeron’s flinch at the mention of that Halloween and the funeral, and barely contained one himself. Perhaps this had not been such a bright idea after all, for him to pursue himself. He should have left it to Severus. It was something Aeron needed to do, no doubt – pay homage to his father and the woman who had loved him enough to die for him. But it was most definitely something Severus, no matter his feelings toward Lily, should have taken his son to do. He honestly could not recall why he had offered to do it …

“Alright.”

Surprised, Voldemort looked up, watching as Aeron struggled to sit up whilst scowling at his apparently protesting legs.

“You are certain?” Was all he could say.

And for a moment, Aeron sat and contemplated. Voldemort was honestly expecting him to change his mind, or not have been serious at all. He was waiting for a roundabout classic Snape response, and was therefore all the more surprised when the teen nodded.

“Yeah. Need to move,” he said softly, wincing as his legs stretched out. “Besides. I’ve got some questions for you.”

.T.

They had been sitting in the hallway of the Headmaster’s office for four hours. Four long, lacking-entertainment hours. Two hundred and forty minutes if doing absolutely nothing but simply staring at the wall before them, not saying a word to each other.

And Hermione was beginning to worry.

Not worry about how much longer they would have to sit here, waiting for Professor Dumbledore to finish speaking to his guest, but instead about Ron. Ron, her best friend of four year, who one could usually not get to shut up, who was barely able to sit still long enough for a class, who cared more about his chess game than anything else. The same Ron who was now not saying a word, who was sitting silently, and had abandoned a game she had craftily challenged him to.

Though outwardly Hermione simply watched the redhead teen, inwardly she was breaking under guilt. She had been closer to Harry than Ron, she knew. She had gone along with her relationship with the shy boy knowing that she was slowly drifting away from her other best friend. But had she gone too far? Had she forgotten? Had she left Ron to unknowingly fend for himself, convinced she was right there watching his back? Had he sunk into his grief over Harry’s death, sure that she would pull him to the surface if he started to drown?

Had she forgotten his being? Did she no longer know what was normal for him, and what was dangerous? Had she watched him, certain that he was swimming away from the whirlpool of sorrow, only to not realize he was slowly being absorbed into it?

How she longed to reach over and place a hand on his shoulder – to stroke his hair, to whisper in his ear that everything was going to be all right. She just wanted him to lean on her shoulder and cry – to let loose the tears that she had not seen on his face since after Harry’s funeral. She yearned to hold him, to comfort him, as a sister would her grieving twin.

For that was what they were now, whether it was desired or not – twins. Twins in the grief they shared over the loss of their younger triplet.

Not just friends. Never just friends. Siblings, closer than any could imagine. A bond none could hope to gain.

If only she could just reach out to him …

The gargoyle turned then, startling them both out of the silence that had consumed them as it disappeared to reveal a twisting set of stairs. Ron stood, as did she, at the sound of heavy footfall on the concrete steps. She watched, waiting to see Dumbledore’s ancient form on the staircase.

Only to see Neville Longbottom amble down, shoulders slumped as though the burden of a heavy weight, sandy hair flat against his head in an inanimate visualization of his true feelings.

Neither he nor Ron seemed all that surprised to see the other there.

“Dumbledore will see you now, Ron,” he said quietly, voice monotone. “Just Ron,” he added when Hermione moved to follow her friend. She stopped, puzzled, watching as Ron moved toward the staircase without looking back. It was only when the gargoyle returned to its normal spot that Neville looked up, blue eyes locking with Hermione’s soft hazel ones.

“Will you walk with me, Hermione?” He whispered, offering his arm. Slowly, seeing no other true alternative, she nodded, slipping her arm through the crook of his arm, closer to him than she had ever been before.

And they walked, once again consumed in silence as they passed by several portraits Hermione could not help but notice seemed to look suspicious. Neville’s pace was quick as he lead them toward a side door that she knew lead to the gardens, and only when they were outside did he slow.

“It’s beautiful here in the summer,” Hermione finally murmured, eyes wide as she took in the beauty of Hogwarts she had never before seen. Flowers of every color, shade, and hew sprung up around every corner, beaming at her so brightly that her head hurt. Birds she had never seen around during the semester were now in abundance, singing cheerful songs as they flew overhead. It was breathtaking.

“Professor Sprout releases the glamour charms over the gardens as soon as the students leave,” Neville explained softly. Catching her puzzled look, he elaborated. “No student is allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the summer. As you know, some have home lives that make returning less then pleasant.” An image of The Daily Prophet screaming of Harry’s abuse flashed through her mind, and she looked down. “Professor Sprout puts a glamour on the gardens to make it easier to leave. I mean, would you want to leave something so beautiful to go home to something … not?”

She understood.

They walked silently for a few more moments, until they were able to see Hagrid’s Hut, which was also more scenic than she could ever remember it being. There seemed to be something weighing on her friend’s mind … something heavy.

“Neville,” she spoke after a minute, looking up at the once bumbling boy. “What did Dumbledore want to talk about?”

She did not expect him to stop in their walking. She did not expect his usually smiling eyes to take on the haunted expression they now harbored. Slowly, he withdrew himself from her arm, only to turn around and face her, his expression the most serious it had ever been.

“There is a war going on, Hermione,” he said, voice so low she almost didn’t hear him. “A war you think you know, but you don’t. A war between Dumbledore and Voldemort. But where Voldemort fights himself, Dumbledore uses a warrior. A hero. A hero that used to be Harry.” Hermione flinched at the degrading description he gave of their friend, but Neville did not look apologetic. “Now that he’s … gone, Dumbledore needs someone else. I was the next choice, for reasons I cannot tell you here. I refused, and Ron was the next option.”

And then it all clicked.

“Would you support me if I were the One?”

‘Oh, Ron,’ her mind cried in despair.

“There are three sides to every war, Hermione,” Neville’s firm voice drew her attention back to him. “I’ve made my choice. I won’t fight for any side that caused Harry harm – I can’t betray him like that. Now, it is your turn.”

“I … I … Ron,” she managed to get out. This was beginning to be all too much. “I promised Ron.” It was all she was able to say, but it was all that was needed. Neville nodded – it was obviously the answer he had been expecting .

“Can you see those?” He asked suddenly, voice somewhat desperate as he waved to their left. She looked, but saw nothing but fields of green grass.

“See what?” The tenseness of his shoulders seemed to relax.

“I pray you never do,” was all he said, and looped their arms together once more, continuing their walk.

Now, however, Hermione’s mind was unable to appreciate the beauty of Hogwarts for what it was intended to be. It was so bright and happy, that with its surroundings, it seemed almost sad. Like melancholy’s sorrow.

“God help you, Hermione,” she heard Neville whisper as they walked. “God help us all.”

.T.

‘Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to The Twilight Zone! Dododododododododododo.’

‘

‘You’re both starting to get annoying,’ Aeron thought viciously to his voices in his head, tightening his borrowed cloak tighter around his body. He felt as though he had to agree with the first voice, though, in some retrospect. For at the moment, he was walking at the side of Lord Voldemort, no animosity flowing between them, and with no curse having left either of their lips aimed at the other.

Yes. It was strange.

Aeron had been surprised to learn that Mors Amor was concealed a mere five hours away from Godric’s Hollow – more surprised that Voldemort was comfortable with the refuge being that close to an area Dumbledore seemed rather fond of, even if it was well protected by charms, enchantments, and other protections Aeron cared not to know about. He had said nothing on it, though. There had been no time – Voldemort had been too absorbed in getting them both here untracked to answer questions.

Aeron knew the wizarding lord was surprised he agreed to this outing. To any who knew the story surrounding them, they would think Aeron had lost his mind, putting so much faith in a man he barely knew anything good about. The truth was, however, that he was beyond truly caring at this point. If Voldemort wanted to kill him, that would mean that everything within the past week – fathers and Cedric included – had been a lie, and he would therefore have no regrets for dying. His friends already thought him gone. And if Voldemort was truly sincere in his offer, then he was killing several birds with one stone: keeping his promise to Cedric to give the man a chance, seeing the graves of his father and Lily Potter, and gaining answers to questions he was certain only Voldemort would give.

Either way, Aeron wasn’t truly set up to lose anything.

“We’re here,” Voldemort announced softly, and Aeron looked up, and couldn’t contain the smile that broke out upon his face.

Godric’s Hollow was everything he had imagined it would be and more. The houses, though outwardly grand, were simple, not too small but not too large, spaced out so that there was plenty of yard for each. There were trees everywhere, their soft, dark green leaves seeming to wink ay him in the sunlight. The grass was lush and healthily green, ending just at the brink of the cobblestone sidewalk, as though taunting it with its proximity. The road they currently walked on was made of firm, reddish dirt, and Aeron could almost picture witches and wizards trotting down it on horseback, beaming with happiness as they greeted one another politely.

The Wizarding section of Godric’s Hollow, though abandoned by all but the magic that sustained its beauty, instantly felt like home.

“This way,” his companion directed, already moving, pulling him away from his thoughts. “They are buried under the tree in the center of here – no one thought the graveyard was good enough for them.”

“Maybe it wasn’t,” Aeron responded, following. Neither offered opinion was a challenge, and neither took it as one.

Aeron felt the graves before he saw them, and knew almost instantly where they were. Vaguely, he noticed Voldemort slow to stop as they neared the giant Weeping Willow, but did not comment, his eyes trained solely to the two pearl white head stones standing peacefully under its shade.

He approached his father’s first, cautious as he did so, tracing the engraved ‘James Godric Potter’ tenderly, as though afraid the marble would crumble beneath his touch. The image of his father standing before him not a week before, smiling brightly and embracing him, brought unbidden tears to his eyes.

“I know less about you than I thought I did,” he informed his father gently. “But I am no less proud of the man I know you now to be than I was of the man I was told about.” He knelt down, brushing his lips against the white marble. “I love you.”

He turned to Lily’s next, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do. Would addressing her be an insult to his father? She had taken from Severus what was his … would his father see it as a betrayal?

But then her cries, the very ones he had heard from the Dementors, entered his mind, and he pushed thoughts of betrayal aside as he knelt down before her grave. “So … you’re not my real mother. And yet you raised me, and loved me as though I was your real son. You even loved me enough to give your life for me.” He reached out as the words left his mouth, caressing her headstone lightly. “So I must ask to have the honor of calling you “Mum”, anyway.” He smiled as he said this, leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to her name as well. “I love you, too.”

And for a moment, he just sat there, reveling in being in the spot where they had obviously thought him safe, sitting in their company. And then he heard Voldemort shuffle, and the question that had been at the forefront of his mind finally slipped from his mouth.

“Why did you kill them?”

He could feel his one-time nemesis stiffen, and felt his own apprehension growing. The information had not been offered to him with the explanation of his heritage – perhaps there was a reason for that. Perhaps the lie was kinder than the truth. Perhaps it wasn’t a lie at all. Or maybe Lily and James Potter had truly just been hunted down. Or maybe … maybe there was a darker, more sinister reason that his mind couldn’t comprehend enough to form …

Suddenly, Aeron’s legs seized up painfully, a soft cry of pain cracking from his throat as his weight fell to his hands without warning. He fully expected to feel his head slam against the harsh marble of Lily’s headstone, but not the strong arm that wrapped around the front of his shoulders, or the gentle hand that pressed down on the middle of his spine to bring him into a comfortable sitting position.

“Your transformation will start soon enough, Master Snape,” Voldemort muttered, sounding very much like the Tom Riddle Aeron had met in his second year. “We need to get back. Your explanation can wait.”

Aeron could offer no protest as they Apparated away, neither noticing the black glass flower twinkling sadly in the sunlight, upon a grave that Aeron had not noticed, and Voldemort had avoided.

.T.

“And you are certain that this will work?” Lucius Malfoy’s voice was clipped as he stared at the small vial in the palm of his hand, silver eyes alight with greed as he studied the crimson liquid inside. The cloaked figure sitting before him laughed an unamused laughed, and Lucius scowled at them in return.

“Of course I am certain it will work,” the figure replied. “The entire vial, down your son’s throat at the stroke of midnight. By light of dawn, you will have the Vida Vampire needed to defeat the Dark Lord.” The figure paused, and then slowly added. “Granted, it will be a more painful transformation than most. There are dangers --.”

“I do not care of the dangers,” Lucius snapped, pocketing the vial. “Draco is a Malfoy. There will be no problem.”

“Of course,” the figure replied. For a moment, they stared at one another, as though locked in a battle of wills. And then, without warning, both Apparated away, the two sounds combined not enough to alert the Aurors patrolling just outside the door.

.T.

Severus Snape was not a man who claimed to hate anyone, which was rather remarkable for one so adamantly on a side of war with such a wonderful reason for being there. As it stood, the Hogwarts Potions Professor actually prided himself in not hating anyone, claiming to all who asked him what that it simply wasted too much energy – energy he could be putting into the war.

But at that moment, as he stood over a steaming miniature cauldron, face locked in his infamous scowl, Severus was really beginning to hate Albus Dumbledore.

No. Hate did not even begin to describe his feelings. Harsher synonyms – loathe, despise, filled with an unnatural desire to grab the man’s trachea and just pull. Those were better terms.

Brewing the Schola Serum was illegal. Simply having the ingredients within your possession was enough to earn you ten years in Azkaban Prison’s deepest, darkest cell. Brewing it with the intention of giving it to someone gained you a nice life sentence – actually pouring it down someone’s throat earned you the Dementor’s Kiss without the luxury of trial.

And Albus Dumbledore had him locked in his quarters in Hogwarts School, brewing this illegal potion, with the intention of giving it to Ronald Weasley, the youngest son of Molly and Arthur Weasley, who had more power in the Wizarding World than they knew.

When Severus had heard the news that Ronald Weasley was to become the new hero, he had felt immediate anger toward the one who was unknowingly replacing the role his son had once been forced into. But then he had seen the teen, who right along with Harry Potter had been the bane of his existence, and all anger had faded. The boy was a mere shell of his former self, walking around with hollowed skin, and a gleam in his eyes that hinted at madness. He had seen that look before – on the faces of family members who had lost loved ones in the First War, and were unsure of how to properly grieve.

Using the Schola Serum on him was barbaric. It had been intended to be used in wars of extremity only; it all but took away the free will of the one who drank it– made them desire for nothing else but to become the strongest warrior in the world – to defeat any and all who stood in their path. They had no other desires, no other emotions. Family and friends simply became targets to protect, nothing more. He had tried his best to tone down Weasley’s potion, but this was a brew Albus knew well. Anything to drastic would reveal more than Severus was now willing to risk.

Now that he had Aeron to think about.

A quick glance at the clock revealed the time. Eleven o’clock. One hour to finish the potion and get back to Mors Amor in time for Aeron’s transformation. A small smile formed on Severus’ lips at the thought. The transformation had been his favorite part of his heritage, and if he knew Aeron as well as he thought he did, it would be his son’s, as well.

A sharp wrap on his door jerked him out of thoughts, and he cast a curious glance toward it. Albus knew the password – he never bothered to knock anymore. Who then …?

His question was answered as his guest managed to correctly guess the password, and the door opened to reveal a sheepish Andromeda Black, an apologetic Remus Lupin, and one hell of a furious Sirius Black.

“Severus Snape,” the animagus growled dangerously, eyes flashing with rage. “We need to have a talk.”

Damn.

.T.

The walls seemed to whisper around him, the wind that howled harshly against their stone structure sharing in his agony. For once, he could not bring himself to force his nonsolid form to float through such barriers – couldn’t gather the energy to do so.

Cedric had known there would be another for Aeron – another one to help him through this journey of pain, to comfort his nightmares, to hold him when it all became too much. He knew that the possibility of him being with the young vampire was nonexistent, even when he had been alive. His destiny had always paled in comparison to Aeron’s; Godric was right, they could never have intimately intertwined.

But as he found himself outside his charge’s thick oak door, Cedric’s heart bled all the same. His ghostly body jerked back against his mind, shying away from the task he knew would not be easy on either of them.

“Now of all times is not the time to be selfish, Cedric.” Godric’s voice rang out in his ear, the words from earlier forcing his hand through the inanimate object. With one faithful surge forward, Cedric was in the room.

He had expected Aeron to be standing by the window where he had left him that morning, though for the afterlife of him, didn’t know why. The raven-haired, cobalt-eyed teen was too restless; standing in the same position for hours would have been more out of character than if he smiled for twenty-four hours straight.

“Cedric?”

Aeron’s questioning call was grated with annoyance Cedric instantly knew was not aimed at him. Chocolate eyes darted to the side of the room, landing on the large silk-sheeted bed that leaned against the wall. He could just barely make out the vampire’s diminutive form against the shadows – hunched over, breathing irregular, small hands heavily massaging stretched out legs. The Specter felt small rolls of pain surge over the annoyance radiating from the younger boy, and his task lay forgotten as he dashed over to his still-living friend in concern.

“What’s wrong?” He demanded, meeting Aeron’s gaze as the teen stopped his ministrations in surprise. “Are you still ill? You told me you felt fine! Is it from … them? I thought Andromeda healed you completely. Did she miss something?” Another idea occurred to him, and he glared at his companion suspiciously. “Have you done something?”

“Cedric!” Aeron protested, smiling tiredly. “I’m perfectly fine! My body is just reacting to this upcoming … transformation.” He chewed over the word slowly, and Cedric could sense his confusion and apprehension of it. “Anyway, I suppose I look worse than I feel, because Voldemort – Voldemort! – sent me up here and told me to lay down.” And Aeron chuckled at the words as though he could not quite believe them himself, a sound so innocent that any within hearing range would have paused in their activities just to smile at it.

But Cedric did not hear it.

Voldemort. The Lord Voldemort. A candidate he had not even considered – the candidate that was already close to Aeron. It was insane that he had not even considered it before. Voldemort and Aeron were as opposite and alike as they could possibly be. And Voldemort was already turning away from the hatred he had held for Harry Potter … already caring. Voldemort was …

“The other,” he whispered.

“Cedric?” Aeron’s voice broke through his thoughts, and he looked up into cobalt eyes. The teen that had been laughing a moment ago was now frowning in concern. “What’s wrong?”

A tight smile formed on the ghost’s face. “Did you know … that I liked you during the Tri-Wizard Tournament?” Aeron did not reply, though the flash in his eyes revealed surprise. “Yes,” Cedric continued grimly. “I liked you then, even when everyone else was convinced you had stolen my glory. And those feelings only grew.”

“To love,” the vampire finished softly, and Cedric nodded.

“A love that cannot be,” he added. “Your destiny leads you away from me, Aeron, as much as I am loath to admit it. You … you must continue on here, and I must return to Heaven.”

And for a moment, there was silence. Cedric felt as though the shattered, bleeding pieces of his heart were now drowning his lungs and piercing his chest. The pain was unimaginable, worse than what he had felt when Peter Pettigrew had struck him down with the Killing Curse. He stood, having every intention of just backing away and leaving, when Aeron stopped him cold with one word.

“Why?”

So sweet, so innocent. Cedric’s body grew tight with fury – fury toward himself, toward Aeron, toward the damnable Four who were responsible for this. Why? How about why couldn’t Aeron just have left it alone?

And without warning, he swooped down on the younger boy, brushing their lips together in what should have been a fierce, smoldering kiss. However, all he could feel was the warmth of Aeron’s body, and knew that Aeron could only feel the harsh cold of his.

“That’s why,” he growled as he pulled back, trying not to feel a pang of guilt at the hurt that shone clearly in Aeron’s eyes. One final stab, one final way to make this easier on Aeron. Only one. “Cedric Diggory belonged to Harry Potter,” he spat, his rage real. “Not Aeron Snape.”

And then he was gone, flying through the walls of the Mors Amor citadel and into the night sky, and therefore not hearing Aeron’s cry of pain as his spine jutted outward as the clock blared a warning 11:50.

His own pain was too much.

.T.

“I want to see him.” Severus scowled at the demanding tone in Black’s voice as he carefully vialed the Schola Serum, and not for the first time that hour shot Andromeda a murderous glare.

He truly had no desire for any of this

Sirius Black’s request was valid enough – he was James’ best friend and made Aeron’s godfather by James, leaving that particular bond still legal and binding. He also knew that his son would have no qualms with seeing his godfather and the werewolf mutt; it would probably even make him smile.

And perhaps that was why Severus did not want them to be together just yet. For as much as it killed him to realize this, the bond between Black and Aeron was more paternal than the one that existed between him and Aeron. If they were to reunite so soon after the bombshell of his paternity had been dropped, chances were extremely high that Aeron would lean more on Black than before, leaving his bond with Severus incomplete.

He needed … wanted more time with his son.

“Perhaps sometime in the next two weeks,” he allowed, placing the vials gently in his store cabinet. “Give Aeron a chance to adjust.”

“But it’s Har-Aeron’s birthday!” Black protested, and Severus rounded on him.

“I think, Black, that I am being perfectly generous with my offer – what did you just say?” The animagus blinked, apparently caught off guard by the abrupt change in Severus’ temper, and could form no words.

“It’s Aeron’s birthday today,” Lupin replied softly for him, and Severus felt a weight settle on his shoulders.

“What time is it?” He demanded.

“11:57.” Andromeda replied, her eyes wide as well. She knew what day it was.

And when Severus clutched his portkey and disappeared, his destination unheard even by the werewolf’s lupine ears, she was left to once again explain the situation.

.T.

He was wrapped in chains – more chains than he was certain were necessary to restrain him – chains that were weighing down his already weak body as he was lead to his father’s study.

Draco was not entirely certain as to what was going on. Neither Milfy nor Marissa had informed him of this change in events, and the twin house-elves were usually quite loyal to their task in warning him of Lucius’ intentions. He did not know why he was locked in pounds of metal chaining, lead on leashes that were stronger than anything he had ever seen attached to a dragon.

Did they think he had gone insane? That the sight of his mother’s lifeless, abused body on the floor of his cell had driven him into a murderous rage that would have him lunging for Lucius Malfoy’s throat the second he laid eyes on him?

Well … they might be correct in that assumption. Killing his ‘beloved’ father was certainly at the top of his priority list, beating ‘escape’ only because of his current situation.

He closed his eyes tightly against the assault of the harsh light when they entered the study, and the guards had to jerk harshly on their leashes to get him to move. Slowly, his silver pools managed to open, only to find himself in the presence of his father and those who had brought him here, and no one else.

“Draconis,” Lucius greeted in a purr, and the blonde teen scoffed weakly at the façade of love. “I have a surprise for you.”

“What could more of a surprise, father,” he hissed, wincing as he tasted blood in his mouth from using his voice. “Than for a father to bring his son before him like a dog? Very poised and proper, that.”

Lucius scowled, and Draco mentally congratulated himself. A celebration that was cut short at the barked order, “Hold him!”

And as the five grandfather clocks in Malfoy Manor struck midnight, Draco’s tortured screams reverberated into the night.

.T.

Hundreds of miles away, having suffered from a far less painful fate of the same case, Aeron Servarius Snape stood up slowly in the presence of his father, Voldemort, and Merelda. Four majestic, large wings stretched out proudly from the middle of his back, their golden color gleaming in the moonlight.

“Happy birthday,” his father whispered softly. “I told you that you would enjoy the after effects,”

Golden eyes sparkled like mad as Aeron allowed a real smile to grace his face.

To Be Continued …

Whoa. What’s it been? 1 year? 1 ½? 2? Who cares? I’m back, this chapter is finished.

Seriously. I really do apologize for the long wait. I needed to step back and examine the story, fix some things. I hope this chapter has lived up to the others, and to your expectations.

The voices in Aeron’s head: They actually serve a very high purpose. I think I’ve already given you all the clues you need to figure the two of them out. Points to anyone who can tell me what (or who) they symbolize.

Draco’s transformation: Yep, the book said the only way to become a Vida was to be turned by a sire or be born that way. Let’s just say that Draco’s transformation, to Vida’s, was highly illegal. …You’ll see what I mean next chapter.

Cedric’s farewell: Yep, he’s gone. Served his purpose and all that. Any that still want Harry/Cedric, Delcius Cruciatus is waiting. To those who don’t, look at it this way. Cedric’s gone, leaving room for some Voldemort and Aeron interaction …hehe.

Next chapter: Dumbledore’s schemes get deeper, and something tragic happens. Interactions between Voldemort and Aeron, and maybe even some Bill and Remus romance. BIG SURPRISE in this chapter …that I’m not going to give away. –grin-

I’m going to post information about Vidas on my myspace, to clear things up, if anyone’s interested.

Alright. I’m off of here. And guys, I did work extremely hard to get this chapter to come out just right, so please take a moment and review to show me you appreciate it, ok?

Thanks!

Later,

Brit


	8. Crimson Brutality

  
Author's notes: [HPLV slash]AU summer before OotP. When Severus finds Harry Potter on his bedroom floor, beaten and not breathing, Dumbledore's secrets begin to unfold. Mutiny is apparent, and the lines of light and dark are now forever blurred. Severitus. DarkVamp!Harry  


* * *

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Lord Voldemort, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. To elaborate further, I also do not intend this fanfiction to be any form of slander, nor do I make profit from it.**

**Notes1: You’re only going to get a brief (but cool) glimpse of Aeron’s power in this chapter. He doesn’t really have time to check them all out and everything.. This chapter is long enough, anyway.**

**Notes2: Sorry about the long wait. Talk about freaking Writer's Block. Tip. Don't start your freshmen year of college with fanfictions in the works. You're going to need time to adjust ... if you're like me, anyway.**

**To Reviewers: Well, I’m certainly happy that you’re happy I’m back. (grin) Thank you very much for your reviews and support of this story. I greatly appreciate it. Sorry this took so much longer than anticipated, but as I stated above … gr.**

**Warnings: Slash, AU, language, violence, character bashing, character manipulation, mentions and flash backs of child abuse (which I do not condone in any way, shape, or form).**

**Chapter Eight**

The gentle hum of the wind assaulted his ears in a taunting caress, enveloping him a tender embrace of bitter coolness, beckoning the oxygen from his lungs in sweet temptation, of which it followed willingly. It tousled his kept, translucent locks to the point of disaster – made his ice-hared blue eyes water from its shock. His tall, proud structure shivered uncharacteristically at its attack, his knees aching to bend to the wind in submission, if only to avoid further assail.

Lucius Abraxas Malfoy stood quietly in the courtyard of his gothic-styled mansion, black velvet cape billowing dramatically behind him, pale skin annunciated by the bright moonlight. For the first time since he had arrived at his manor over a month ago, he was alone, neither accompanied by his family nor his guards. His subconscious had demanded to the brink of insanity for solitude, and he had reluctantly caved in to the internal requests when his headaches became too painful for him to brush aside. A simple, well-lashed snarl had kept Crabbe and Goyle Sr. from following at his heels like the dogs they were. And his family … was no longer of vital concern.

The thought made his flawless face crunch in a grimace of regret. Ending Narcissa’s life had perhaps been a premature move. For even though his Slytherin wife had been on the verge of betraying his movements to Lord Voldemort, her presence had been a comfort to his ever-raging mind. Her slim, warm body pressed against his at night, no matter how reluctant, had been his anchor to some form of humanity. Her cleverly concealed reprimands on his drabbles in dark magic had unconsciously held him back from slipping in too far. Her death had been inevitable, but its timing had been on a burst of uncontainable anger. The way her crystal eyes had sunk into him as he raised his wand to her beautiful face – filled with confusion, hurt, and love.

The same expression Lucius fancied he saw in the depths of Draco’s eyes at times. More so before he had locked his son within the dungeon cell for not joining him – even more so before he had done what he did.

The wind gave a particularly harsh push against his still form, causing him to stumble slightly. There had been a time, a mere fourteen years ago, when his family had been all that had kept him going – the only reason he fought as he did. He had wanted his wife to be able to walk outside without the fear of someone slitting her throat simply because she was married to a ‘dark wizard’. He had wished for nothing more than to raise Draco in a world where everyone was accepted for who and what they were. Lord Voldemort had offered him that chance, and he had joined the charismatic wizard without a second thought, assured that, together with their army, they could bring about the right way of thinking to the world.

Only that had not happened. Lucius had seen what his leader had not. Muggles, Muggleborns, Muggle-lovers would never be able to understand or accept them. They would never be able to surpass their prejudices and simply take everything as it was. At first, he had turned to the deeper mounds of Dark Magic in search of a way to ‘convince’ them otherwise. Imperio was known to wear off after a number of months, and any potions of the same effect required additional dosages. There were too many of the imbeciles to follow such a contrite path.

It was only when Albus Dumbledore joined their battle that their nonviolent path became a fully-decimating war. Suddenly, those who had joined them in hopes of an equal world were being slaughtered, too caught up in their surprise to properly defend themselves. His tinkles in Dark Magic for persuasive measures suddenly became extensive dives for defensive actions. Viciously, he had pushed aside any and all of Voldemort’s warnings against his actions. The darkness surrounded him in unsympathetic understanding, leading him away from his original course to a path that showed him the answers to all of his questions. The opposition would not see what their side was trying to achieve – why they were trying to achieve it. The only way to get what they wanted … was to remove the other part of the equation.

To remove the lessers contaminated with Muggle blood.

But Lord Voldemort was not one that he found himself able to persuade to this new action. He was surprised that he had not foreseen the bulk – the man himself was a Half-Blood with a Muggle for a father.

Thus, his current situation. Broken off from the one man who had supported his intentions for a decade and more, forming his own movement. It pained him that his former leader would be amongst the casualties of his actions. But there could be no help in that.

“My lord?” The voice the broke Lucius from his thoughts brought on a disgusted sneer, transforming his beautiful face into a grotesque, horrific sight. He whirled around, only to see Wormtail cowering along the edge of the doorway, beady blue eyes darting between him and the cobblestone floor he stood on.

_“What is it?”_ He hissed venomously, inwardly laughing as the smaller wizard jumped at the aggravated words.

“It-It’s V-V-Voldemort, my lord!” Wormtail squeaked pathetically. “He h-has sent another s-summon for your s-son!”

Another? Had there been one previous? He voiced these words to his servant dangerously, and the wizard’s lack of response was enough to answer him.

_“Crucio!”_ He watched, emotionless, as Wormtail writhed and screamed on the ground at his feet. Ignoring any summon from Lord Voldemort could and would severely compromise their movement – especially one such as this, with the suspicion Narcissa had already planted in the wizard’s mind. An image of his son flashed through his mind – silvery-blonde hair matted with grime, eyes discolored, body battered and torn from both his treatment and the turning. He could not deny Voldemort now – he would simply have to … make due.

“Goyle,” he called out softly, removing the curse on his servant as the other stepped out from the shadows, gazing at him curiously. “Remove Draco from his chains, get him cleaned up, and have Vance erase his memory.” He smirked sardonically as Wormtail struggled to stand.

“He will be leaving us today.”

.T. 

It was the first time Aeron had gotten a good look at himself in the past few weeks.

Granted, he had allowed himself glances in the mirror, checking his facial features for an embarrassing flaw, such as toothpaste remnants on his pale lips. He had flat out refused every temptation – no matter how strong – to examine the rest of his body by mirror. There were signs left behind of the life he had lived, he knew – signs he had no desire to ever see. Signs that came attached with memories that had brought him too much pain and sorrow to easily overcome.

This morning had not been one of his stronger moments. His mind berated his exhausted will and his heart shattered at the image standing just as uneasily before him.

His body was paler than it had ever been before, and somehow, Aeron knew it was not because of his heritage. His ribs protruded from his chest so sharply that he could account for each one without an ounce of trouble. The countless, thin gray scars that were traced haphazardly across his skin only made his malnourished form that much more obvious, though he doubted anyone unfortunate enough to catch sight of his chest would be able to drag their eyes from the lines long enough to notice. It was almost as though his torso had become a canvas for torture – a twisted form of art. The scars were almost beautiful, in a terrifying way, each leading to some deeper, large scar that had resulted from a brutal puncture. A glance at his back would showcase four slim, flawless scars – two a shoulder blade – the only ones that had not been caused by a weapon of some sort. They were suspicious only because they did not blend in well with the other jagged cuts on his pale flesh. The deep, screaming marks of gray and red had been dragged about slowly by the vicious metal buckle of his unc- _Vernon’s_ favorite leather belt. One in particular could still bring the memory of fiery pain to Aeron’s mind – the jagged, lifeless gray scar that extended from the base of his neck to mid spine.

He was hideous.

His body was the epitome of wear, tear, use, and abuse. There was no more than an inch of skin between the rigged lines for an eye to admire, for a tender hand to caress, for a lover’s lips to kiss. It were as though his body were a physical representation of air that hung about him – a warning sign. _‘Stay away from this one! See these scars? This’ll happen to you, too, if you get too close.’_

With a growl of frustration, Aeron jerked his eyes from his devastating reflection, jerking on a pair of black dress pants with tight agitation, annoyance growing as he examined the apparel. This was not the kind of clothing he was accustomed to donning. A spare robe, he could handle. Garments so fine that the abused skin of his legs and arms tingled … was a little harder to deal with.

It was just a reminder. Unkind, brutal in its blunt honesty. Such things were not intended to be for him. Undeserving, unwanted --.

His hurtful thoughts screeched to a surprised halt as his cobalt eyes sparked a furious gold.

‘Perhaps,’ the familiar drone of the second voice was an undesired sound in Aeron’s mind. ‘It would be best to stop insulting yourself when you are obviously a creature of pride.’

_‘ “Yourself”?’_ Aeron spoke back bitterly. _‘I suddenly get to be my own person now, do I? Person, or lack thereof.’_ A shudder of warning raced up his spine at the words. Once more his eyes flashed gold, longer this time, glaring into his soul spitefully. A slightly snarl, a barring of a small, pointed fang.

_‘Don’t say a word.’_ He warned the voice harshly, before thrusting his mind out in an effort for dominance. Vida Vampire he may be, but a wizard first and foremost – there was no animal in him. His stomach grew queasy as his eyes rapidly flipped from one color to the next, and with a sharp announcement of arrival, all four of his wings sprouted rebelliously from his shoulders. The room began to spin, harshly so, but he refused to give up. Pale hands leaned forward, seeking and clutching the support of the sink in a white-knuckle grasp. His mind raced with whispers, taunts, sounds unintelligible and of no concern to his aching head.

“Enough,” Aeron finally croaked, voice coming out as nothing more than a whimper. It refused, continuing to push, continuing to hurt. His throat cleared with an effort of encouragement, and he tried again. _“Enough.”_

And just like that, it all stopped. The pain in his head evaporated instantly, and like scolded children, his wings retracted, one by one slipping into their respective slot. The room ceased to spin, leaving him to hold needlessly to his sought clutch. And when he glanced up to the mirror, it was the unfamiliar but desired cobalt that stared back out at him, not a sign of haunting gold anywhere in sight.

‘I never said you were not your own person,’ the second voice whispered soothingly after a moment of recovering silence. ‘You are just – temporarily selflessly sharing your body with two … voices that happen to be of benefit to you.’

_‘Yes, well.’_ It annoyed Aeron that even his mental speaking was coming out in gasps. _‘I’m rather done with being selfless, if you can understand that.’_

‘I understand that more than you could possibly imagine,’came the sympathetic reply. ‘All that aside, however, I would learn to start locking your door, if I were you.’

_‘What are you on about?’_ He inquired warily, but there was no chance for a reply, for the next second, there was a soft knock on the bathroom door. Startled, Aeron quickly jerked the proffered white t-shirt over his head just as the thick, dark oak door creaked open, his father’s dark head poking through curiously.

“Aeron?” He called out softly. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the Vida entertained a look of relief washing over his father’s face. “Are you alright? You have been in here for quite some time.”

“I’m fine,” Aeron replied, a little too quickly. Severus’ eyes flashed, catching it, but he said nothing. “Is there something you needed?” His tone must have been more sharp and impatient than had been intended, for the elder vampire’s eyebrows drew together in a somewhat softer, yet just as annoyed scowl.

“A talk, if that is not too much to ask,” he replied dryly, and for his part, Aeron had the decency to appear slightly ashamed, mentally berating himself as he offered up a weak yet sincere apology.

“Sorry. Er, I’ll be out in just a minute.” His father nodded mutely, closing the door softly behind him, and because he turned around immediately after his words, Aeron did not see the light of concern in the normally expressionless coal irises.

‘You’ve got the whole bloody thing laid out before you, you git,’ the voice scolded patronizingly as Aeron swept his hair around absently. ‘Why are you acting like such an infant?’

_‘Don’t lecture me!’_ Aeron snarled back, quickly shrugging on a long black blazer to cover his recently colder-than-usual bare skin before moving toward the door. _‘Just … shut up.’_ For a moment, there was silence.

‘Once you get your head out of your arse,’ the voice whispered slyly as the door creaked open. ‘I will.’

Any sharp retort Aeron planned on snapping back dissipated from thought at the sight of his father sitting in an elegant chair (that had obviously been conjured, as it had not been there before), his face utterly neutral as he stared at an extravagantly designed silver chalice held tenderly in his hands. Upon his son’s entrance, his head lifted.

“Aeron,” he greeted stiffly with a nod. But all of a sudden, Aeron’s attention was not on his parental figure, but on the unexpected seductive, tantalizing scent that assaulted his senses in merciless waves. His back went rigged and then arched, his spine protruding painfully as his cobalt eyes flashed gold.

Whatever it was, he could smell it – taste it – and it drew him into a euphoria of which he had never before experienced. It called to him, tempted him, twisted around his senses and drew him to painful lust. Unaware, he was stepping forward, swirling eyes closing in pleasure as his hand unconsciously reached up.

“What …” He panted the word, swallowing thickly in an attempt to finish his sentence. “What is that?”

“Blood.”

And just like that, his hand retracted as though it had been burned, the brightness of his eyes dimming darkly in revulsion as his feet quickly backtracked. His pale lips formed a disgusted sneer, though his thin body’s tension betrayed his presented attitude.

Blood. Blood came from living things. The text in third year, or what little of it Hermione had drilled into his brain, claimed that vampires required life blood to survive. Blood mixed with the essence of the victim’s soul, which in the end, demanded the death of the blood provider.

Which meant his meal took the life of a person.

“No,” he hissed. He could practically feel Severus’ surprise. “No. Get that thing away from me. I won’t … _no._ ” He turned from it – from his father – and moved toward his bed.

“Aeron,” his father called softly. “Aeron, surely you knew, even without reading the Book, what being a vampire entails. You know you --.”

**“I said no!”** Both Vida froze as the room shook at Aeron’s words, the elder watching as his son’s eyes flashed murderously. Without warning, the chalice in Severus’ hands shattered into dozens of tiny shards, the contents spilling onto and staining the marble-white carpet at his feet. He glanced up, watching as Aeron’s eyes slowly came back into focus before catching his gaze. They stared one another down, a mixture of stubborn pride, hesitant love, and harsh concern, of which his son finally looked away.

“I get enough people killed without actually killing them,” he explained softly. “The last thing I need to do is drink their damn life energy away.”

_‘Your son is still the Boy Who Lived,’_ a voice chimed in Severus’ head, reprimanding. He opened his mouth to respond, to somehow reassure his son, when a sharp, searing pain engulfed his back. The whimpered hiss that escaped his lips drew his son’s attention back to him, and through the hurt, Severus was slightly surprised to see the frowning confusion on Aeron’s face.

“Dumbledore.” The teen’s word was stated, yet the elder nodded anyway. The tension was forgotten as Aeron’s expression softened, his dark head nodding. “You should go. It stops then … right?”

“Yes.” Severus stood slowly, wincing as the burn intensified, before leveling his son with a look. “You will need to drink blood sooner or later. Though, if you would like, it can wait until after we speak of the scars on your back.” And with that, he clutched the pendant around his neck, the portkey pulling him from Mors Amor without a sound, leaving Aeron standing in his room alone, struck dumb.

“Bloody _hell_.”

‘That sums everything up quite nicely, I think.’

.T. 

_One drop, two drop, three drop, four …_

“It is our belief that Harry’s soul – the soul of the Chosen One – bonded with his because they were so close a match.”

_Harry, why is your blood on the floor?_

“He was the most obvious choice, you understand. Our only hope now.”

_Five drop, six drop, seven drop, eight …_

“I have already spoken with him on this, and he is quite adamant to take it on.”

_I thought I was supposed to be your best mate._

“I knew you would understand.”

“Then what did you leave me behind for?” 

“Ron?” The youngest Weasley son blinked into focus at the sound of his name, realizing he must have said the next phrase aloud when he noticed the startled gaze of his parents and Headmaster upon him.

“’M fine,” he whispered assuringly, lowering his gaze. He hated the look in their eyes – pity. It was all he ever saw anymore. He didn’t want it – didn’t want it from anyone. If they couldn’t bring Harry back, he wanted nothing to do with them. And pity definitely wasn’t going to put his best friend back where he belonged – back with him and Hermione – back in their soft, firm hold of friendship.

“Ron.” His father was speaking now, kneeling before him, both hands on shoulders. Reluctantly, the lanky teen looked up, focusing his sight on the center of his father’s forehead, thus missing the look of fervent, forlorn love in his father’s eyes. “Ron, have you listened to everything Professor Dumbledore has told you? Do you understand what’s going on? Why you’re doing what you’re doing, and what it entails?”

“Did you know,” he began softly in response. “That, more than anything, Harry loved Christmas?” His father blinked in surprise, but Ron was beyond caring what people thought of his words. “Even more than flying, silly git. And it wasn’t even because of the presents he got. Nope.” A small smile flittered across Ron’s face. “He just loved to be around everyone, without having to worry about homework, or exams, or going to Potions the next day. On Christmas, he just laid around, grinning like an idiot, and then dragged me and Hermione outside to play in the snow. For hours, he just wanted to have fun.”

And finally, he looked his father dead in the eye.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continued, voice suddenly calm. “Is that Harry was innocent in all ways that mattered, and then that bastard of a wizard, after taking away things that had made Harry happy in the past, finally took away any chance he had at happiness at all.” His voice hardened to a hiss. “He took Harry’s life. He tore my best friend _away from me._ But now.” He quitted. “Now I’m going to get revenge – for both of us.”

He did not say anymore than that – they didn’t need to _know_ anymore than that. His father’s hands tightened on his shoulders; a sob broke through his mother’s mouth. He ignored them both. They mourned the thought of losing him – of loss. They didn’t understand loss. He knew he would not be the same son they knew after this, but they would still be able to see him. Still be able to talk to him, to touch him, to hug him. Things he couldn’t do with Harry anymore. No. They did not understand what it was they were mourning for.

Because if they did, they wouldn’t be mourning.

“Molly, Arthur.” Dumbledore spoke gently. “It’s time. If you would be so kind as to please wait in Minerva’s office for the Order meeting …?”

His father’s hands slipped from his shoulders – he ignored the two kisses pressed to his head; the feel of soft tears that bathed his scalp. He did not acknowledge the sound of footfall as Dumbledore led his parents to the door, the soft words they exchanged with each other. Suddenly, he was struck by a memory, of standing in the same spot he was now sitting, Harry standing timidly by his side as they were both lectured by Dumbledore on flying the Ford Angelina to Hogwarts after missing the train.

Had that really been almost three years ago? It felt like it was just yesterday …

“Mr. Weasley?” Dumbledore.

Ron glanced up into the blue eyes that Harry had trusted so much, a calm feeling washing over him at the sympathetic, understanding expression shining there. His eyes fell to the vial in the Headmaster’s wrinkled hand, to the pitch-black liquid it contained that seemed to be sloshing valiantly in search of escape. Slowly, he accepted it, cradling it tenderly between his fingers. Slowly, cautiously, he uncorked the bottle.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Weasley.”

They locked gazes once more, and there was a glimmer of emotion in the Headmaster’s eyes that he did not recognize. However, he was given no time to ponder it as his hand impulsively shot toward his mouth, pouring the Schola Serum down his throat.

_His world instantly went black, golden veins of tantalizing nightmares flashing before his eyes as his throat seared in pain. Vaguely, he registered the vial crashing to the floor, the sound of the shattering glass allowing his head to burst into flaming torture._

**.: What is it you fight for:.**

_“What?” Ron’s voice cracked as he questioned aloud. He did not recognize the voice._

**.: Don’t think! Don’t question! What is it you fight for? :.**

_“Who are you?” He demanded weakly. There was something inside of him protesting his questioning, trying to pull him back. He bulked against it. Refused it. Something was wrong – this wasn’t right. Harry. He wanted Harry._

**.: Ron :.** _This time, the voice was different. Familiar. Ron’s head jerked up, the darkness fading away to a dim light. And there he stood – Harry, his best friend, wrists and ankles bound tightly by the nightmare threads. He looked horrible; bruised, bloody. His emerald eyes shown with pain and sorrow – there was a hopelessness around him that had not been there before._

_“Harry?”_

**.: Ron :.** _His friend whimpered._ **.: Ron, it hurts so bad. Why? Why did he have to take them from me? My parents, Sirius, Cedric. He killed them all. Why? What did I do? Why:.** _Ron’s heart ached as a tear tracked down Harry’s battered face, but try as he did, he could not make his limbs move forward._ **.: He killed me, Ron :.** _Harry whispered softly, and the redhead’s efforts screeched to a halt._ **.: He killed me, and that hurt, too. So much pain, Ron. So much pain.**

**.: He took me away from you, Ron.** _Harry continued, the tears still falling._ **.: He took away any chance I had at happiness. Make him pay, Ron. Make him hurt like he made me hurt. Don’t let him get away with it. Please, Ron. Please. :.**

_“I won’t, Harry,” swore Ron fervently, once again straining against his invisible bond. “I won’t. I promise I won’t.”_

_And Harry smiled through his tears – the sad, timid smile Ron remembered so clearly._ **.: Thank you, Ron. I knew I could count on you. :.** _And with that, Harry threw his head up and screamed, the nightmare threads pulling him back into the darkness. The pain that had been racing through Ron’s veins erupted in a blazing inferno, and the cry that tore through his throat would leave any who heard it haunted for the rest of their lives._

As Ronald Weasley crumpled to the floor in a mess of tortured screams and broken sobs, Albus Dumbledore stood from his kneeling position, a small smirk on his face as he banished the conjured image of a ruined Harry Potter with a flick of his wand.

Yes, this would do quite well.

.T. 

His legs protested the movement.

Granted, it had been only twelve hours since his transformation (which had been more painful than had right), so expecting his limbs to be utterly pain-free was quite a hope to grasp onto – one that flew too quickly and soared too high for him to keep a grip on. Still, the searing pain that would race through his tired muscles every time he turned to go back or rest, was just a little over the top and very much unappreciated.

Aeron was swaying slightly by the time he reached the bottom step. The voices that had seen fit to plague him were oddly quiet, though the slight nagging feeling in his gut that said he could have easily prevented his pain was not a welcome sensation. His shoulders tingled with need, a slight fire pointedly stretching his veins – his entire being ached to go outside. The sight of the courtyard from the floor-to-ceiling window taunted him knowingly, and without realizing it, his feet began to move forward, and he only came to rest when his pale hand rested against the glass.

‘Feels like a cage, does it not?’ The second voice was different this time than the others – more … sympathetic. Slowly, Aeron nodded. ‘It’s the Vida in you, and your current situation is entirely your fault. You should have stretched your wings whilst the sun was dark.’ A pause. ‘But, at least now, you have decided.’

_‘Decided?’_

“Master Aeron?” Merelda’s call jerked the young vampire from his mind, pulling his attention to her diminutive, smiling form. “Are you ready?”

“Ready?” He inquired stupidly, tearing his reluctant form from the glass. “Ready for what?”

“Why, to go into the village to gather supplies for the Feast!” The elderly witch exclaimed, surprised. “I have been waiting for you for the past twenty minutes! Did Lord Severus not tell you? I asked him too.” Aeron’s eyes lowered at the mention of his father, and Merelda’s eyes darkened in understanding.

“I see.” Her words were venomous. With a jerky nod to follow, she moved toward what Aeron could only assume to be the main entrance. “Come along, then. We have much to buy, and with the Feast tomorrow, we are pushing ourselves for time.” Hesitantly, the Vida took a step forward.

“I’m really not – wait. Feast? What feast?” Merelda simply shoot him a look over her shoulder as she continued on.

The path to the village the old woman lead him on was different than the one he had traveled with his father. The trail was made up entirely of intricately designed marble stone, lined from beginning to end with bushes of blue-white flowers that swayed in a nonexistent breeze. Exotic butterflies floated lazily in the air, providing delight to any who saw them. To the left, embedded in luscious, thick emerald grass, was a small creek whose water ran with a soothing sound. Of what Aeron had seen of Mors Amor, the space between the citadel and the village was the most beautiful section it contained, and in a twisted, understanding sort of way, it made sense. The people of the refugee town looked toward Voldemort as their leader, and as such, the manor as a standing symbol of hope. The utopia he currently walked through was designed as a promise of what would come when the war was won. A sight that kept the optimism in the eyes of the villagers from dying out.

An unknown emotion swirled within Aeron’s chest as his mind steadily comprehended the thought.

“Tell me about yourself, Master Aeron.” It was Merelda’s soft beckon that lead him gently from his brooding, and cobalt eyes turned toward the elderly woman in confusion.

“I-I beg your pardon?” He stuttered, surprised and slightly apprehensive. “Wh-what do you want to know?”

“Anything,” Merelda replied lightly, soft blue eyes watching him intensely. “Lord Severus brought you here, and all I know is that you’re his son. How old are you?” She peered at him suspiciously, as though daring a lie.

“Fifteen,” he mumbled in response, startled as Merelda barked out a laugh.

“A baby, just as I thought,” she said smugly. “But a teen nonetheless. So, do you have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Several, I would think …” At the implication, Aeron glanced down at his feet, kicking a random stone from his path.

“Er, there was one – a boy,” he clarified quickly. She made a noise that egged him to continue. “He was older than me, and … just amazing.” A small smile of remembrance flickered onto his face. “Kind, caring. We never really dated, but I like to think there was something there, maybe.” They were within a few feet of the end of the path, where the stone became dirt and the flowers and butterflies disappeared.

“And what happened to that budding relationship?” The old woman would not give up. “I cannot imagine anyone wanting to leave a pretty young thing like you.” The compliment would normally have brought an embarrassed flush to Aeron’s face, but instead, his cobalt eyes only darkened and stayed down.

_“Cedric Diggory belonged to Harry Potter. Not Aeron Snape.”_ Cedric’s harsh words stabbed his mind like a dagger.

“A lot of things, I guess,” Aeron whispered softly. “Mostly, I think he just couldn’t handle what … what I’ve become.”

And at those words, Merelda stopped short, whirling around so quickly that Aeron had to pull back slightly to avoid hitting her.

“Now, you listen here, young master,” she growled, wrinkled forehead scowling. “You haven’t “become” anything. You’re still you, whomever that is. The only difference is that you’ve now acquired a taste for blood. This _young man_ ,” she scoffed slightly at the term. “Obviously has no idea what he’s missing out on.”

They were on the soil of the village now, and the tension that had shot up at Merelda’s outburst deflated as quickly as it had come. Though it was a different part, this section of the village was not unlike the area Severus had taken him to before. The people were still laughing, still smiling. They sent their happiness his way, though they did not know him, respectful curiosity in their eyes as they did so. A child ran in front of him, cutting him off with a mumbled apology as she ran after her friend. Once again, Aeron was struck by the disparity of Mors Amor and the rest of the Wizarding World. He could not recall a time before he had arrived here that he had seen so many people looking so carefree.

“Trade day,” he heard Merelda mutter in annoyance. “Those who haven’t been presumed dead or “dark” will be taking things to Knockturn Alley to sell for money.” She shook her head sadly. “Merlin knows we could use it. This place is a mess.”

“No,” Aeron disagreed softly, stopping with a smile as the same little girl from earlier raced before him again. “It’s beautiful.” Merelda matched his expression.

“You remind me of my grandson,” she stated softly, continuing forward. “He loved this place, too, no matter how wrecked it was. Such a sweet boy, my Liam.”

“Does he live here?” Aeron inquired curiously, but immediately regretted his question as the old woman’s face went dark.

“No,” she replied shortly, a tinge of sorrow in her tone. “He was killed execution style in the First War by an Auror who believed he had slaughtered two innocent children.” Her shoulders heaved somewhat heavily. “He was just a little younger than you.”

Stunned, all Aeron could do was follow Merelda as she continued down her way, watching her shoulders slowly loosen from the tense position they had curled into, watch as her aura slowly grew. The mere memory of her grandson’s death had wrecked her – imagine what the initial effect had been, not only on her, but also on all of those who now resided in this desolate, beautiful sanctuary.

“You know,” Merelda called out after a moment of silence, and Aeron hurried to get closer to her to hear her words. “I think you and Lord Voldemort would make quite the handsome pair.”

And though the words were said mostly to cover her pain, Aeron finally flushed with embarrassment.

.T. 

Some say that siblings are the wonder of the Universe – natural born soul mates that are destined to love each other in a passionate, platonic way. Others say that only special siblings are soul mates, whilst the rest are merely people thrown into the same family, who hold absolutely no fondness or love for one another, but are forced to say that they do, if only to avoid the scorn of society. These others believe that siblings tell others this information so much that they themselves grow to believe it, and therefore the term of “soul mates” is abused as believed to be on all of brotherly and sisterly humanity, instead of the special cases.

Ginny was quiet as she watched her eldest brother scurry about his small flat, brushing the sleeves of his robes for nonexistent particles of dust, checking his pulled-back hair, making certain that he was carrying everything – from his wand of rosewood with Goblin skin core to the money pouch he had pulled seemingly from nowhere. He was nervous, she could tell, and not just because he had yet to cover up the telling Dark Mark on his wrist. His amber eyes were dancing dangerously with expressions she rarely ever saw. His movements were stiff, timid. He was humming softly, tune quicker than it should be. These were quirks she had grown to know about her brother, small alerts to let her know when things with him were off. But instead of the worry the usually drew, they now made her smile, for it was not often that the great and mighty Curse Breaker William Weasley was nerve shot by the prospect of what Ginny constantly referred to as a “date”.

It was somewhat of a relief to witness.

Things had been so dark recently – so sorrowful. The times she had awoken from visions of Harry’s final moments had not lowered in number; there were still times that she caught a forlorn glint in her eyes when she studied her appearance in the mirror. Her own Dark Mark reminded her of what this war had already cost her. A seventh brother, the only one she had that came even close to Bill. A secretive twin, perhaps, the only one who could truly understand her. The pain had not numbed – in fact, with the prospect of meeting the Dark Lord looming over her head, it had only grown worse. A stabbing pain straight through her heart – a traitor’s pain.

But with him lost, who else had she to live for? Lord Voldemort, a man who had simply been fighting a war in which Harry was an opponent, or Albus Dumbledore, a man who had thrown Harry into a hell that had eventually destroyed his life, to simply develop a tool?

“It’s just Remus, Bill,” she finally said, when the red-haired wizard muttered yet another curse at some invisible imperfection. “He’s not going to notice if you have some flaw only you can see, but he will notice if you’re late.” Her smile grew from a softened twist of sadness and content to a full-blown grin as her companion whirled on her with a scowl.

_“Ha. Ha.”_ He growled. He snuck a glance in the mirror beside him, checking once more, before giving an uncertain nod of approval. “Ready to go? You remember the rules, right? No Knockturn?” Ginny rolled her eyes as she stood.

“I’m not dense, Bill,” she replied. “I can go shopping on my own just fine. Now, come on. I want to get there before the afternoon crowd, and I can’t do that if you won’t _get_ there before the afternoon crowd.” Muttering under his breath about annoying little sisters, in a tone that assured Ginny he knew she could hear every word, Bill moved toward the front door, allowing Ginny to tag along as he maneuvered to summon the Knight Bus.

_‘And yet, you truly have to wonder if there is more to this war than just a battle of two great wizards. Maybe, just maybe, there was meant to be a third party in this abomination of power. Maybe it’s not a war at all. Maybe … maybe it’s an ascension.’_

.T. 

Severus was frustrated.

The times he regretted taking Dumbledore’s Phoenix Burn were rare and quick in their existence, and murdered with such brutal determination that they seemed resigned to and willing for their imminent deaths. Severus was not a man who liked looking back on his past actions with a sense of lament, and therefore avoided doing so with intensity.

This, however, was not one of those times.

The image of his son standing in the bathroom, scars crisscrossing in a serpentine cruelness across his back, had haunted Severus the moment he had allowed Aeron privacy to finish dressing. Scars he had expected to see – the four slender marks, two per shoulder blade that would allow the admired Vida wings entrance into the world. Somehow, Severus had managed to convince himself that, though he had found his son on the verge of death from horrible abuse, there would be no reminder of such a horrendous lifestyle. But there was, and bloody hell, was it enough to awaken the demon that lay dormant inside of him to the brink of demanding the blood of the creature who had dared harm his child in such a fashion.

This was also the first time that Severus regretted taking Vernon Dursley’s life so quickly.

He needed to be with Aeron – his magic knew it, his Vida knew it, _he_ knew it. The child had always been confused, and volatile in that confusion. Lost, pushed aside, hurt. He was still Harry Potter in the sense that he longed for someone to latch onto, someone who could and would take care of and love him for the person he was instead of the figure he represented. The revelation of paternity had given them both that opportunity – and then Albus had to go and interrupt. Again.

Lazily, his guarded obsidian eyes flittered around Minerva’s small office, taking in the random Order members gathered there. It both concerned and relieved him that Black and the werewolf were not present – concerned as they were some of the best moral wizards in the Order and should therefore be present, and relieved as he was still not willing to deal with their demands to see his son. His thin lips sneered in disdain as he took in the sight of Molly and Arthur – their traumatized, yet slightly triumphant expressions were enough to tell him that Ronald Weasley now ceased to exist.

He ignored the small stab of guilt at the realization.

“Ah, my friends.” The familiar jovial voice sent a chill racing down Severus’ spine, yet he allowed his eyes to lock with the penetrating blue gaze of Albus Dumbledore as the Headmaster of Hogwarts entered the room. “Thank you all for coming on such short notice.”

“Has something happened, Albus?” Minerva’s voice was oddly soft as she spoke her question, and Severus dared to think he heard a tremble in her instinctively strong tone. “Is it You-Know-Who? Nothing has befallen the children?” Albus was quick to belay her fears with a gentle hand upon her shoulder, but Severus did not miss that her eyes stayed pleadingly on her mentor.

“No, my dear,” he assured her, and the others who had jumped to the same conclusion. “Nothing quite so grave. No. In fact, with the recent events of this summer, I daresay this news will be welcome.”

“What is it?” This was Emmeline Vance, sitting a little too eager for Severus’ taste – he could see the hunger in her bright eyes. “Death Eaters, Albus?” The rest of the gathered group caught their breath in anticipation, and no one seemed to notice that the Potions Master now looked wary as Albus beamed at them all and slowly nodded.

“My sources have informed that there has been a large mass of Death Eater movement toward Knockturn Alley – a group of thirty or so. They are to arrive there under the presumption of being refugees of the First War, intent on selling goods for money to survive.”

Severus froze, his mind momentarily going blank. Trade day … how could they have been discovered? The Dark Lord was always cautious about this day! They had contacts in Knockturn who knew to keep quiet about the refugees … this wasn’t making any sense.

“Preposterous!” Molly bellowed in rage, only the constricting grip of her husband keeping her seated. “How dare they soil the name of innocent victims to go about their work!” There was a general murmur of enraged agreement, and Severus saw Albus’ eyes impossibly brighten.

“My dear, my dear, please.” A hand upon her shoulder now, with the same instantaneous calming effect. “I believe that it is within our best interest, and the interest of winning this war, that the Order be there to greet Voldemort’s followers.”

No! 

“But what about the people already there?” This was Charlie Weasley, quiet and against the wall until that moment. “The civilians. What of them?” The familiarity of the question was not lost on Severus – it was one he himself had spoken many times up to his joining with Voldemort. He eyed the second eldest son of the Weasley clan, saw his stiff threatened posture, his untrusting gaze. He wondered if the Dragon Tamer yet knew the fate of his youngest brother.

“Precautions will be taken,” Albus replied gently. “But you must understand that this is a war, Mr. Weasley. Some sacrifices must be made for the greater good.” He turned to them all now, smile still intact. “When you leave the castle, your marks will take you to your Auror who will give you your directions. Molly, Arthur, if you would stay behind but a moment? Severus.” It was all the vampire could do not to growl as their eyes locked. “I assume you know what to do?”

“Of course, Headmaster.” He could not help the bitterness in his voice, and in the end, didn’t try to. He stood in up in one fluid motion, cloak swirling mesmerizingly around him as he made his way toward the exit, stopping only to return Charlie Weasley’s glare.

He needed blood, a one-way ticket to Mors Amor, his son, and Dumbledore’s head on a platter. Preferably in the reverse order.

_Damn the whole thing to hell._

.T. 

He balanced the packages in his arms carefully, keeping a tight grip on them as his feet stumbled upon the unfamiliar path, cobalt eyes glaring at the back of the head of the witch in front of him. Aeron was no stranger to work – his short life had been filled with nothing but work. However, he did have a problem when someone was using their magic to carry every other package purchased – except three heavy ones that he was now being forced to carry. Though he knew it was not Merelda’s intention, the young vampire felt as though he was being used. Felt as though his help were not truly necessary, and that the packages had been given to him to keep him occupied.

Like _he_ was not necessary.

“You’ll want to be careful when we go in, Master Aeron,” Merelda called out softly, effectively drawing him away. “There will be quite a few more people than there have been since you’ve arrived, to help with the preparations of the Feast. With your lack of fondness for crowds …” Prancing around Mors Amor with Merelda was quite different than it was with his father. Whereas Severus desired to remain in the shadows like his son, Merelda went out of her way to greet mass amounts of people. Aeron had quickly viewed this as a problem, and had thus drawn up his hood and remained far enough from the elderly witch to not be noticed. Merelda had gotten his point with no problem, and had not acknowledged him when she spoke to the villagers.

“I still don’t think this Feast is such a wonderful idea,” he replied softly. “Is it truly necessary for me to be introduced to the other villagers? I mean.” He paused. How could he possibly convey the dangers to her without revealing who he truly was – or rather, who he was to other people. Mors Amor may be home to refugees, but it was also the sanctuary of Death Eaters, many of whom he knew to be murderous. At the moment, they believed Harry Potter dead, and therefore of no threat. But if he were to slip up at this Feast, to reveal a secretive trait only Harry Potter had …

“Neither your father nor Lord Voldemort would do anything that could prove dangerous to you, Master Aeron,” replied Merelda shortly. “Besides, every child of any lord or lady is presented to the village upon their fifteenth birthday – a tradition the villagers would be angry to miss. It is a mere miscalculation that your birthday is today, and the Feast tomorrow.”

_‘A miscalculation,’_ thought Aeron dryly. _‘Of course. Certainly.’_

They entered the citadel through the back door, and it was the second his foot crossed through the threshold that the vampire understood the old witch’s warning. Before he could blink, he was surrounded by a small group of laughing people, each snatching away the packages the floated in the air, smiles on their faces as the moved about to put them away. He watched as a middle-aged brunette man charmed Merelda into handing over her own load, laughing brightly as she lightly scolded him.

“Let me get those for you, love,” a familiar voice chimed, and Aeron was slightly surprised as none other than Nymphadora Black whisked away his packages, giving him a wink of conspiracy as she bounded off toward a room he assumed to be the kitchen. For a moment, he simply stared at the gathered group, watching warily as they began to gather closer. Their laughter quickly became mixed, creating one large sound that drowned even the sound of his own breathing. The air seemed to disappear, suffocating him, drowning him, denying him. With desperate gasps, Aeron stumbled backwards until he collided with something tall, soft, and familiar.

“Claustrophobia is a common ailment among newly-born Vidas, I’ve heard,” whispered a voice in his ear. A hand ran up and down his right arm soothingly, the other holding him tightly in place to secure calm. “Deep breaths; they’re not coming near you. Relax. That’s it.” A soft chuckle, one Aeron felt was as foreign to this figure as this situation was to him. “You truly are quite troublesome, are you not, Master Snape?”

_Voldemort._

With a start, Aeron jerked away, his head clearing as he whirled around to meet the amused crimson eyes of the wizard lord. For the second time that day, his face flushed in embarrassment. He began to mutter something that sounded eerily like an excuse, but Voldemort simply waved it away, turning his gaze toward his gathered crowd. “No need to apologize, Master Snape. They _are_ quite a frightening lot.’

“They’re not Death Eaters,” Aeron blurted suddenly, and then covered his mouth in horror, glancing to see if any had heard him. And just like that Voldemort was no longer at his back, but moving from him, toward the gathered group, beaming proudly, as a father would over his accomplished children.

“No, they are so much more than that,” he called back, tone soft so that only Aeron could hear. “Happy birthday.”

And Aeron watched, stunned, as Voldemort worked the gathered group of non Death Eaters. He observed as each person stopped chatting and turned toward their leader, and was shocked as they merely tipped their heads in acknowledgement of his presence, their smiles still firmly, _willingly_ , in place. He watched as the wizard he had once loathed bent down to address small, bashfully grinning children, and could not tear away his eyes as the blood-colored orbs risked connecting with his over the gathered crowd. Aeron knew that everything was not as it seemed. He knew the people of Mors Amor revered Voldemort as he had once revered Dumbledore. He knew that Lord Voldemort and the Dark Lord were two very different people.

But damn it all to hell and back if he did not know who exactly Lord Voldemort was.

.T. 

Remus Lupin had always been a kind, compassionate person, always putting others needs and wants before his own – making sure that everyone had enough food on their plate before serving up his own portion of the meal, or waiting until he was certain a friend would not awaken once more from a horrific nightmare before finally allowing himself to slip into slumber. He was also an instinctively cautious person. His trust was not easily given or gained, and once bestowed, was too easily lost, depending on the length the trustee was known. Some wrote these traits off as symptoms of his condition – his _ailment_ – and perhaps they were. And perhaps, at any other time, that would be a problem. But not today. Today, Remus felt as though he could hand off his trust to anyone passing by; felt as though he could spill his entire life story to the next person to walk by. And it was all because he was here, at Grumpy’s Pub in Diagon Alley, sitting across the table from Arthur and Molly’s eldest son, smiling slightly as the younger wizard poured over the offered menu, a concentrated frown on his face as he studied the contents.

The middle-aged former Hogwarts Professor was not usually the aggressor in relationships. He preferred to be approached, lowering the risk of being rejected and hurt because of what he was. It was a system of action that had worked quite well for him – he had had a fair share of lovers who did not mind that he was a werewolf. But Bill … there was something about him – something different. Something that made his wolf peak out from beneath its self-created curtain and take notice. Something that made his wolf, and himself, want to pursue the taller male. It was a desire Remus had never acted on, not until the redhead had spoken with him at the Order meeting, unknowingly calming his raging emotions on his hysterical best friend. The feel of Bill’s gaze on his abused form, his hot breath just barely reaching his bare skin, had his wolf howling and demanding proximity, contact – domination.

Not that it could have come at a worse time. The death of his pup, the revelation that said pup was alive, and a vampire, no less. The discovery of a potential mate was a rare occurrence in itself, and if it weren’t for the fact that Bill was approaching an age where is was nearly demanded his take someone for himself, Remus could have left the development alone long enough to track Severus and Harry – _Aeron_ – down.

“I think I’m just going to settle for coffee,” Bill finally sighed, and Remus smiled his amusement at the admission. “Don’t tell my mum, but the only reason I haven’t been promoted to head Curse-breaker is because I can’t make decisions to save my life. I take too long, and then when the time comes, I just opt for something simple. Hours are wasted; can’t tell you how many times my boss has threatened to fire me.” He sighed once more, a different sigh, one that spoke of weariness and restlessness and pain and everything else a person should not experience to such a point. “Not that I’ll be keeping _that_ job much longer, mind. Not with this war.”

And Remus watched as Bill then turned his attention to an approaching waiter, ordering his drink, and subconsciously doing the same for Remus. The other man was gone by the time the Weasley heir realized what he had done, and he turned to Remus in a mixture of embarrassment and defiance, an emotion the werewolf was quite certain the man did not know he was exhibiting. And though the creature inside of him was regretful for not chasing down its pup and its brother’s former mate, it released a delightful sound as it caught the look. The acknowledgement. The patented desire.

And just like that, Remus found himself standing up and leaning over the table, his own celebrated common sense inundated by his desire as his lips sought those of his companion. It was not gentle, but demanding. Harsh, cruel even, perhaps. He was forceful, bruising Bill’s lips with his own, allowing his teeth to ensnare the soft flesh in a biting embrace. The whimper the younger wizard released drove Remus crazy, and without asking permission, he forced his tongue into the unknowingly willing cavern, caressing Bill’s for a mere second before exploring the rest of his prize. They twisted, mouths dancing in a battle of which Remus had already been declared the victor. It was not a tender kiss to pass between lovers. It was a brutal, lustful act of claiming, to show both Bill and those around them that Remus had staked his claim, and that it was a claim none could contest or break without fighting him to the death. Potential be damned, the werewolf knew what he had found.

They broke apart, gasping, panting, _breathing_ their desire. Eyes flecked with possessive gold slowly maneuvered around the pub, smirking slightly at some of the looks they were getting, glowering warningly at those whose heads had ducked in disappointment at seeing the younger man claimed so openly. Slowly, Remus sat down, allowing his gaze to fall back onto Bill’s slightly shaking form. Amber eyes seemed to clear slightly as the realization of what had just happened began to sink in, and the redhead slowly began to form words.

“Remus,” he stated slowly, frowning slightly as he noticed the quiver in his voice. “I .. I don’t think I can do this now. I have my obligations. I… I have my secrets.”

An image of Harry Potter flashed through Remus’ mind, and he smiled at his newly found interest understandingly.

“And I have mine,” he whispered soothingly, reaching over the table to trap Bill’s calloused hand in his own. “Take your time. I can assure you I am not going anywhere.”

And they eyed one another, gaze so intense that when the waiter came with their orders, he set them down and quickly backed off, neither wizard any the wiser.

.T. 

Even as his mouth twisted with amusement at the sight his eyes beheld, his head pounded with a horrific pain that made his knees wish to crumble and crack and let his body sink to the floor.

Lord Voldemort watched Aeron Snape as though he were an exotic spectacle at a zoo. He delighted in the confusion that was constantly crossing over the young vampire’s face, the puzzled torment that swirled behind his cobalt eyes. It was not because he enjoyed watching the boy’s silent torture, but more the reason that he relished in the realizations that were no doubt swarming around his brain. And he took great pride in the fact that the haunted look of betrayal had now left the shadow of Aeron’s features. He had no clue as to its source – surely nothing in Mors Amor or any amount of Severus’ stupidity could have brought that look to the young vampire’s face.

He had also noticed that Aeron seemed unhealthily pale – paleness not brought forth by his sudden bought of claustrophobia. It was a shallow look – his cheekbones seemed to protrude just to the point of being noticeable, and Voldemort fancied that he could see traces of blood-filled veins visible upon the teen’s neck. It was an appearance he had caught on the boy’s father every now and then, when the man had gone too long without blood. However, he waved that particular concern aside. There was no way Severus would have left his son without giving him his first blood.

Were Severus around, Voldemort knew he would not have this opportunity to observe his new resident. His friend’s subtle actions made it quite clear that though _he_ trusted the wizard lord, he did not trust him around Aeron. And though Voldemort considered such trust to be no trust at all, he could understand Severus’ caution – after all, he had spent the past three years trying to kill the child.

But Aeron Snape was not Harry Potter, but rather an incomplete mix of the two. And if anyone were to understand what it was like to be two completely different people, Voldemort did. He understood it quite well.

“Who is that boy, my lord?” Inquired a voice to his left, and Voldemort was graced with the vision of Gideon Prewett, standing tall and proud, his sea of red hair tangled in a messy style to hide the vicious scar that lay deep in his neck. His cerulean eyes, too, were on the timid creature.

“You are supposed to wait until tomorrow’s Feast to be introduced to him, but you and your brother have always been exceptions, haven’t you?” There was a bitter smile in his tone, as though being an exception was not a good thing. “That is Aeron, Severus’ son, just recently discovered.” The war-scarred wizard nodded, expression schooled to keep away the shock he was not doubt feeling.

“Dumbledore?” He pressed tightly.

“Of course.”

And that was all there was time to say, for the next second there was the loud resounding pop of a portkey, and the next, Severus Snape wobbled on his feet in the center of the now split crowd, his face anxious as his eyes scanned the gathering until they landed on Voldemort. Instantly, the lord knew something was wrong.

“Severus?” He inquired in concern as the man panted. Neither noticed Aeron slowly inching closer.

“It’s … Dumbledore,” the Vida ground out in a hiss. “The … the Order knows about Trade day. They’re on their way to Knockturn as we speak!”

And just like that, chaos erupted. The group of Voldemort’s most powerful and loyal followers bellowed cries of rage and despair. He felt Gideon slip from his side, already knowing what would happen, off to gather his brother. Through it all, Voldemort held Severus’ gaze, silently asking the one question that would determine their course of action. And he could see it, the answer. The dread in Severus’ obsidian gaze, the shadow of a deadly secret he had not found time to allocate. Slowly, he nodded.

“SILENCE!” He roared, and the citadel instantly became soundless. “You know your duties. Get in, retrieve, and get out. We can afford no battle today. Defend yourself aggressively only if you must. There is more to this than a simple attack.” When he was certain a reluctant calm had fallen over his group, he nodded once more. “Now go.”

And as they all portkeyed to their assigned destinations, the plan firmly etched into their minds, Voldemort watched as Severus ordered Aeron to stay behind. As he felt the nauseating tug of his portkey, headache still pounding, he heard Aeron’s final word.

_“Fuck.”_

.T. 

He was a shadow against the walls of lies, a twisted form of victimanity in a sea of flawless heroes. He caught no attention, and suffered for it not, basking in the phantom glow of discord and the temptation of painful confusion.

Draco Malfoy had once been a flawless being, proud with a haughty mask that hid his humanity from the power-hungry world surrounding him. Now, however, he was crippled, destroyed. A treasure cast out to sea without thought of what ramifications the salt water could have on his wounds. His steps were timid, his silver eyes blood-shot and hollow. The finest of cloaks was draped haphazardly over his body, drawn tightly around his trembling form not for warmth, but for the dark protection it guaranteed him. His slivery blonde hair hidden away from eyes that would recognize, his agonized body pressed away from helping hands.

The teen had no clue as to how he had gotten to where he was, or at the moment, where he was at all. He knew, in the back of his mind, that if he were to move forward, to seek help, that he would receive it. But something inside of him – something strong, something powerful – warned him away in hysterics, forcing his legs to carry him away from the large crowds, toward the more secluded areas infested with rats and lazy flobberworms. Where this would have once disgusted Draco (and rightly so), it now provided a sense of peace, a blanket of comfort.

And he didn’t know _why_.

Bitter tears burned at Draco’s eyes as he stumbled around someplace tantalizingly familiar. He could hear whispers, feel an occasional glance on him. He knew that some people thought they recognized him, from this place or that, and he was quick to move from their attention. His body burned with pain both new and old; pain he did not know the source of. A strong urge in him desired to get to Malfoy Manor as soon as possible, back into the protection of his mother and father’s loving embrace. But something nagged him not to. Not the something that kept him in the shadows, but something else. Something … something like a memory. A brutal memory. Horrific.

Suddenly, his feet stumbled, coming into contact with a small obstacle. He fell forward, barely managing to grasp a support his body entered a very small, crammed shop. His mind froze as eyes instantly fell upon him.

‘Get out,’a voice in his head urged. ‘Get out now. Run. Hide! They’ll find you, catch you, kill you! Leave, you idiot! Run! Runrunrunrunrunrun.’ Without question, his feet began to obey the command as the voice continued to give it.

“Draco?”

And there she was, standing before him, red hair forming a curtain around her face as she studied him. The voice inside of his head quieted immediately, though his body still trembled in anticipation. She moved closer, and he forced himself not to step back. He knew her. He did. He knew he did – she was too familiar for him not to.

“Ginny,” he croaked, and apparently this was the wrong thing to say, for her forehead crinkled in worried confusion. She reached a hand out for him, to bring him back up to her eye level, never looking away, gasping as she finally took him in.

“What’s happened to you?” She whispered. “Draco, who did this to you?” He opened his mouth, the part of him that was _him_ aching to simply spill everything, if only to realize that everything was nothing.

‘They’ve found you! Get out, get out now! You will die if you stay here! Fool!’

And then he felt it. A race of death creeping up his spine, washing over his body like cold lava. He could hear the ringing in ears, the pressure in the ground beneath his feet. And before he gave his body time to react to the voice’s command, and indeed, before he himself could consider consequences, he threw himself against the small form that was Ginny Weasley as an ear-splitting explosion rocked the street outside.

.T. 

He had just withdrawn himself from the overly large fireplace when the windows of the building he was in shattered with an accompanying _crackboomcrack_.

Aeron had never been one to obey the orders given to him by Severus Snape, and when the entirety of the Mors Amor party had Apparated away for what he had heard to be a fatal attack on the refugees in Knockturn Alley, he hadn’t seen any reason to start. Wandless, he had been forced to resort to Floo Powder, barely managing to escape a desperately reaching Merelda as he went about making his first defiant move against his father as Aeron Servarius Snape.

And now he wished he hadn’t.

The shop he was in, running perfectly normal just a mere second before, was now in shambles. The owner, who had been in the process of greeting Aeron, now lay sprawled across the counter, dead, a large shard of glass embedded in his head, blood pooling beneath him. It was the screams from outside that drew the Vida from the man’s side, drawn to the possibility that his father could be among the injured. But for all the talk Dumbledore had given him about being a hero, and for all the encouragement his friends had given him about fighting this way, nothing prepared the young teen for the sight that greeted him.

Bodies. Several of them – more than several. Some wore regal clothing, whilst others were adorned in civilian’s clothes – the refugees, perhaps even a few innocents caught in the crossfire. Some bodies writhed, some looked up at him with pleading eyes that dimmed to lifelessness before he could reach them. So much blood, so many dead. He knew he could help them, knew he could save them. But he didn’t know how.

“Mummy!”

His head shot up at the cry, eyes instantly focusing on the source. A small boy, no older than a toddler, sitting beside a woman whose stomach was horrifically split open. The child was screaming, sobbing as he tried desperately to push her spilling organs back inside of her body. Nauseated, he rushed forward, vaguely hearing and ignoring a frantic call of his name. He could hear something behind the child – shoes scuffing, a wand being withdrawn, a spike in heartbeat. He knew what was going to happen, and threw himself into the air just as an enlarged cutting curse was uttered. He could feel his wings extending, his eyes changing, but when he hit the ground, there was no child beneath his body.

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned his head toward the left, hear seizing up at the sight of the little boy he had tried to save. The small body was resting not a foot from him, his throat sliced open, his small chest heaving as he gasped for breath. Desperately, Aeron reached for him, pulling his body to rest against his chest, cupping his cheek with a tenderness he had never before possessed.

“Please,” he whispered to the small child. “Please. You’re all right. You’re going to be okay. I promise. Just relax, don’t panic.” But it was not enough. The body in his arms went limp with a shuddering breath, and the Vida was left with an arm full of innocence lost.

“Aeron!”

He looked up now, seeing his father racing toward him, eyes wide with panic and fear. He was so caught up with the corpse he held that he didn’t feel the threat behind him, didn’t move. His own cobalt eyes widened with horror as a flesh of brilliant blue collided with the form of Severus Snape, sending the man crashing to the ground in a burst of blood.

“ _No!_ ”

Aeron’s sight turned red as he allowed the boy to slip from his grasp and to the ground. Though he ached to rush to the older vampire’s side, something inside of him snapped, _broke_ , and he jerked around to face his father’s murderer.

Mad-Eye Moody.

“What’s this?” The old Auror graveled, grinning at Aeron with glee. “Another vampire? Snape buggered a few whores, did he? Well, that’s too bad for you, my --.” He froze suddenly, a dawning look of realization crossing his face. “No. It can’t – _Potter?_ ”

The part of him that was Harry Potter knew and respected this man, but he was not Harry Potter, and therefore, such feelings were gone. Something hot surged through him, gathering at his chest, pushing forward. Burning, splitting – Aeron snarled.

“It’s _Snape_.” And then the burn pushed from his chest and flew toward Moody, embracing him – enveloping his scarred form in a sea of silver fire, incinerating him from the inside out. Aeron watched it all with hunger, watched as the blood gushed forward, the flesh simmered and melt, and finally the bones and magical eye falling to the ground.

And only then did the red fade, leaving behind the newborn Vida to turn toward his father, who still lay face first in his own blood. He stumbled forward, intent on reaching him, only to fall to his knees in a sudden bought of suffocating exhaustion. Strong arms wrapped around his small form instantly, stopping him from hitting the ground, pulling him against a strong chest and keeping him there with soothing ministrations.

All Aeron could hear was the call to fall back, the last sight to greet his eyes the infuriated crimson gaze of Lord Voldemort from behind a familiar face, before the world went black.

.T. 

He placed her gently against the wall of the boundary between Knockturn and Diagon Alley, mindful of her head injury as he made her comfortable. Pupil-less eyes of blood gazed down at the small girl, a scarred hand reaching out to tuck a loose strand of red hair behind a bloody ear.

“You’ll be safe here,” he whispered soothingly. “I know someone is looking for you. They’ll find you here, and you will be free of punishment and suspicion. I promise.” He allowed his calloused skin to brush against her soft cheek before he pulled back and turned toward the remains of Knockturn Alley.

And as three shredded wings of red stretched out to take flight, a spark of intense grief hit his gut, and he briefly allowed his head to turn toward where the main battle had been. Something – someone – in there called to him, begged for him, and at the same time, ordered him away.

In the end, it was order that best suited his survival that won out, and Draco, broken and used, took to the sky.

**To Be Continued …**

**Well, I was going to wait and make this a double update, but I want it out too badly to wait any longer.**

**So, Remus is dominant (I love dominant Remus), Severus may or may not be dead, Ron’s been seduced to being a “hero”, and Aeron just did something incredibly stupid (you’ll find out what next chapter). This chapter was 12000 words long. Now, wasn’t that worth the wait?**

**Anyway, this is the end of what I have dubbed “act one”. Next chapter: Focuses mainly on Aeron and not so much on Draco, with scenes with Sirius (finally). I really can’t give much without ruining the surprises, but if you want Aeron and Voldemort to somewhat acknowledge their attraction to one another, here you go. And, yeah. It’ll be noticeable. Ron’s in this chapter, too.**

**I’m going to start replying to every review now. So just send questions and what not. I’m also going to start up a “deleted scene, back story” … story, inspired solely by Liam’s story. So if you want to see something in there, lemme know. And to answer a question I know I’m gonna get: Yes, Draco’s getting focus for a reason. He has a larger role in this story than just being Ginny’s love interest.**

**Later!**

**Me**


	9. Crimson Brutality

  
Author's notes: Aftermath of the attacks, and a slip in revelation.  


* * *

Disclaimer:I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Lord Voldemort, or any other character found within J.K. Rowling’s novels. To elaborate further, I also do not intend this fanfiction to be any form of slander, nor do I make profit from it.

Chapter Nine

“I want ice cream. Do you think Mum has some ice cream, Blaise? Maybe snorkey flavored. I like snorkey. If she doesn’t, can we go and get some? Like from Knockturn? I like Knockturn and snorkey.” The rain fall was heavy as Blaise ushered his little sister toward the pathway of their manor, but still the proper Slytherin couldn’t hold back a grin at Kari’s innocent and demanding rambling. Coated in several shielding spells, the four-year-old was still warm and dry as they walked through the storm. Blaise, on the other hand, had no such protection, reveling the in the sensation of the cool water caressing his neglected – he loved playing in the rain. If it wasn’t so imperative that they get back home before dinner was served, he would have allowed Kari to play in the woods longer, if only because she, too, had been refused the joys of a normal childhood.

“It’s ‘sonorkay’, Kari,” he corrected gently, grin growing to a smile as the child simply shrugged. “And I doubt Mother has any sort of ice cream anywhere. But,” he added quickly at her crestfallen expression. “I’ll wager that if you ask Merelda when we go to Mors Amor, she’ll have some sonorkay hidden away somewhere.” Sometimes, and only sometimes, he felt as though he were more of a parent to his baby sister than an older brother – the way her face just lit up at the mention of Mors Amor made him incredibly happy, filled with some sort of bliss he couldn’t even begin to describe. It seemed that these days, in lieu of enjoying the company of visiting friends, he desired nothing more than making sure Kari was doing whatever she liked to be doing. And he was simply content to watch her enjoy herself.

“Good.” The word snapped him from his thoughts, and fondly he placed a hand on her head and shook it. They continued their trudge forward, the manor in sight before she spoke again. “When we go can Draco come with us? Do you think his daddy will let him?”

Lucius. Blaise glowered.

“His ‘daddy’ won’t have a choice, Kari. We’ll pick him up ourselves,” he promised, and his sister was happy with that, for the next minute she was racing toward the gate, giggling gleefully as it opened for her before she even reached it. Blaise followed at a slower, more controlled pace, knowing Kari was safe now that they were on their own grounds, face still pulled into a thoughtful scowl.

‘Where are you, Draco?’ He thought tiredly, reaching a hand up to brush the water from his face, flinching as the gate swung shut viciously behind him. He hadn’t heard anything from the blonde-haired teen since Draco had returned to his home – to Lucius. It was almost enough to make Blaise go to Voldemort and plead for some sort of intervention, maybe even the senior Malfoy’s death. He worried that the next time he would see Draco, his best friend would be in a coffin.

“Blaise!” Kari’s voice rang clear across their courtyard, and he glanced up to see that her small form had frozen just at the edge of their marbled steps. “I think there’s an angel at our door.”

“Angel?” He picked up his pace, ready to snatch Kari away from whatever creature had managed to gain entrance to their estate. He slowed when he saw a small trickle of blood making its way from the top of the stairs, eyes rising slowly to the source. A small, scarred body, twisted in a mess of three skeleton-like crimson wings. Stepping in front of Kari, Blaise too froze as the figure stirred, its eyes opening to reveal to endless pits of blood-colored orbs. Orbs that stared at him in a mixture of hope, fear, and exhaustion, and though he didn’t know the color, he knew the expression that had seemed to spend an eternity looking at him.

“Draco.”

.T.

Rain trickled down from rooftops as he stepped blindly beneath them, their sound that of a never-ending waterfall that had an annoying tendency of splashing down upon any who dared to get too close. But he passed them by without so much as a flinch as they attempted to pierce his bare skin, his feet saturated in the blood of their fallen comrades as he sloshed forward, midnight eyes glazed over with impending epiphany. His mind and feet held no connection between them -- he was directionless, caught within his own mental nightmare as his legs carried him through a chaotic destruction of Hell. A part of him, perhaps, recognized the feeling of the cool rain upon his skin, acknowledged the rushed, equally oblivious brushes of others' clothing against him, could hear the cries, screams, and wails of those he really may or may not have known. But that part of him was not the forefront, and therefore not important.

Aeron was alone as he wandered the hectic dirt paths of Mors Amor.

It was done. It was over. The mess of a dream he had barely been able to attempt to sort out had been cut short with one fatally aimed and whispered spell. For only a few short, convoluted days, Aeron had been given everything he had ever wanted, twisted and served to him on a burnt obsidian platter -- no more fame, no more Dark Lord. A place to truly call home, people who seemed to care, and family. A ... father, in place of a snarky potions master for an enemy, in place of a parentless shadow hanging over his head.

'All gone.' Even his mental voice sounded monotone. 'Everything. All of it. Gone.'

His father was dead.

Aeron flinched heavily at the acknowledging thought, so violently that he had to reach out and grasp a calloused building-side wall to steady himself as his chest began to heave quickly in hypervenalation. A low rumble of thunder sounded from overhead, not loud and crashing in juvenile inexperience, but low and dangerous in its warning, soft yet vicious in its grief. His eyes closed briefly as he allowed his soaked head to fall back against the building -- granted his body a moment to rest. The lack of movement allowed the lingering chill to finally settle over his frail body, to envelope him in its freezing embrace, and subconsciously he leaned into it, enjoyed it. Its biting, comforting caress lulled him forward, tempted him to simply stay where he was, seduced him.

And he bulked. Eyes slamming open, he pushed himself away from the wall, away from the comfort, and trudged forward in unsteady movements. Who was he to deserve comfort?

Severus Snape was dead. His father was dead, slaughtered mercilessly, cut down because Aeron had disobeyed his orders and had gone to Knockturn Alley. He had intended to help, to save.

'Aeron!' His father's final cry still haunted his mind. He could still see the older vampire racing toward him -- coming to protect him -- could still see the flash of blue light, so cruel in its innocent hue. Could still see the burst of blood as the man fell.

"God." His body ached, his limbs shook, his lungs burned with feverish air. His head pounded so violently that he just wanted to tear his skull apart and throw the offending brain to the wind and be done with it. His father was dead, and all he wanted to do was throw his head back and scream, destroy something, seek revenge.

'But you already did that, didn't you?' The first voice echoed in his ear, faint and deathly to the sound, filled with more rage than he could even hope to possess. 'Moody. You killed him, burned him up from the inside out. You enjoyed the death of a man who once fought with his life to protect you.'

His feet had lead him to a wooden bridge arching lowly over a steadily building stream of water, but the final words of the first voice sent him crashing knee-first into the weakened structure, held up only by getting tangled in the equally lacking railing. Unstable, exhausted, a torn and ragged sob finally managed to escape his throat, mixed with the longed-for scream as he slowly sank to final descent. The sky, sensing his weakness, opened up and poured, the rain assaulting his bare, scarred skin in delighted cruelty.

So much death -- too much. His bones twisted and cracked at the mere memory of the murder he had committed, as though wishing to kill the body they inhabited in penance for their sin. His teeth clenched together so harshly that he could hear his teeth grinding in protest -- the image of them breaking into pieces, for some reason, brought a shiver of delight down his spine. He recalled Moody's cries as he killed him, remembered the rush of satisfaction he felt at the man's death, the excitement. The silver flame his body had produced had been beautifully breath-taking, hypnotizing in its dance of death. He longed for it again.

But the memory of the Auror's death, the knowledge of his deed, doused the desire with freezing water. The memory of the child he had tried to save, the limp, lifeless body held within his arms, had his back arching as he released another pain-filled cry.

"I don't understand," he whimpered softly, eyes moving upward against the rain, the pain the action brought on meaningless as he called out to anyone who would listen. "Why? Why all of this death? Why that boy, or Moody? Why my father?" The last word was choked out, mixed with another impending sob his fought valiantly to hold back. Looking down, he eyes his flawed reflection in the bubbling water, and whispered instead to it in search of an answer. "Why does it hurt so much worse than it did with Cedric?" Why does it hurt at all?

"Master Snape?"

The voice that called out was foreign to him, soft and gentle in the way that Merelda's was, but worn and aged in a manner that was familiar. His back froze, but his neck turned slowly in the voice's direction, eyes narrowing in slight, confused shock. The man standing at the opposite end of the bridge he recognized eerily but could not place, not enough to stand and approach, but enough that as he approached him, Aeron did not move away. Cerulean eyes peered out at him in concern from beneath a sea of red hair as the man looked down.

"Master Snape?" He repeated as he removed his cloak. Aeron barely registered the feel of it falling over his bare back and tucking around his shoulders, or the strong arms that wrapped around his lithe frame as his knees buckled and collapsed.

.T.

It was eerily quiet as he maneuvered quickly through the wretched house he had spent his childhood inside of, and despite his current burden, it was that fact alone that made his spine tighten in pain. He could hear his footsteps, light as they were, echo throughout the bottom floor as he trespassed upon the aged wood – was distracted by the raspy, desperate breathing of his companion. His own breathing was harsh in its presence, and for one terrible moment he considered stopping and just screaming for the world to make some sort of noise to let him know that it still existed! But he couldn’t … no. Now was not the time to go mad and prove to the world that Azkaban had messed his head up more than he let on.

But as Sirius balanced the blunt weight of the nearly dead Severus Snape, holding onto his last bit of sanity was becoming less and less important.

“Where have they all gone?” The ex-prisoner growled under his breath as he neared the stairs, eyebrows pulled together in a painful scowl. “There were so many injured – where could they have gone?” Absently, his grip around his best friend’s former lover tightened, as though to assure himself that the man was indeed with him and not still laying in the middle of the desolated battlefield in a pool of his own blood, skin the color of ice.

Sirius would never be able to explain why he had trailed after the Order on their mission – he had made himself quite content with leaving the lot alone to go about their business – he held a very slim line of loyalty to Dumbledore now, and it did not include the need to throw his life on the frontlines for the older wizard’s ideals. However, the beast inside of his mind, the ever lovable and equally spirited Padfoot, had thrown itself forward in a merciless rage of needing to go forward, and Sirius had found himself quickly giving into the animal’s instincts to stalk their progress.

It wasn’t as if he had never seen a battlefield before – he had fought long and hard during the First War, and slaughtered bodies and orphaned children had quickly become a common sight to his weary eyes. But this – Knockturn hadn’t been like that. Before, there had been some sort of morbid justice to their actions. The people they had killed had been Death Eaters – traitors to the living who would kill anyone, age aside, that stood in the way of their ideals and plans. But the people the Order had been shooting down … there were no masks on their faces, and he was certain that if anyone had checked, there would be no marks on their arms. Men had been throwing themselves in front of their screaming wives, who were protecting their startled and crying children – no one had been fighting back until the Death Eaters had arrived. And even then, when it became apparent that those they had been attacking were not their true targets – when their true targets were standing right in front of them – the spells had continued. He had seen more than one child brought down by a well-aimed Cutting Curse. His stomach practically lurched at the mere memory. That attack had not been a mission, but a perfectly timed massacre. And he had done nothing to help, nothing to protect the innocent victims. He had waited until the groups had begun their retreats to venture onto the soiled and sacred land in search of survivors.

Maybe it was some horrible sense of penance and retribution that he had found Snape the only one still alive. Or maybe it was James’ way of getting him to acknowledge he now held more than one bond with the man he had once hated beyond reasoning. A sign that grudges should be dropped, and that Ha-Aeron needed to come first.

“BEAST! SOILED ASPECT OF MY HUSBAND’S LINE! HOW DARE YOU SHOW YOUR FACE TO ME – DESTROY MY CARPET WITH YOUR DIRT! UNWORTHY OF THIS LIFE—.”

“Shut up, Mother,” he muttered lowly as Snape groaned in pain at the shrieks of the portrait, cutting through the unbearable silence in a shocking and cruel assault. The steps were easier to climb than they should have been when carrying the weight of another person. The man was lighter than he had thought. “You hate me. I know. I get it.” He continued his ascension whilst absently noting the rants had stopped short, nearing the top floor – his floor – when he began to hear them. The moans, the screams, the harsh slams of hurried footsteps desperately seeking a destination. The familiar scent of spilt blood raced from the floor and to his nose, and suddenly he knew where all of the Order had gone. St. Mungos would have been too dangerous after such an attack.

“At least that means Andromeda’s here, mate,” he whispered to Snape’s lulling head as they reached the top step. His trained mind told him that he should leave Snape to Dumbledore, as he had always done before. But Padfoot raged against the idea, snarling viciously as his limbs began to move toward the room of blood. Dumbledore had left Snape on the ground in the company of death, and even if it was for a good reason, the dog could see no honor in such an act. This man was the father of his godson, his Pup, and that now deserved a strong loyalty, and Andromeda was the only one trustworthy enough to hold that loyalty. Snape had meant enough to James that his best friend had been willing to give up all happiness to protect him – meant enough for James to have and protect his child. A horrible sense of retribution indeed. He turned toward the opposite side of the hall, where he could see the shadowy form of his cousin darting between the linen closet and his brother’s old room, and gave a low hiss to the woman.

“Andromeda!”

.T.

The air was stale and suffocating in the silence that had inundated it – the overcast skies churning with the promise of more rain than was already falling, thunderless lightning striking the ground in quiet rage. Wind blew without howling, pushing viciously through the disoriented people around as though they mattered not, as though it, too, was in a bottomless grief and desperately searching for some sort of hope. Not that the weather’s silence could be fully noted and appreciated, no. All around, wrapped up in the insanity of war and brutality, the citizens of Mors Amor, who had long hoped and yearned for peace after surviving this long, screamed and wailed and cried and demanded to know why those they had lost had not been saved.

Tom couldn’t provide them an adequate answer.

The Lord of Mors Amor, they called him. A powerful wizard born from the darkest of bloodlines they had found and looked to for protection, and by the gods he could not deny them. And though, verbally, they had asked him for nothing more than their lives, the guilt he felt for bringing them to this desolate location of dirt and dust to live was soul-eating. The despair and ruins he had discovered them in upon his resurrection from near-death and madness was soothed, albeit slightly, only by the fact that Severus, Lucius, and the Prewett brothers had been in his stead, protecting them when he could not. But seeing them so lost, so vulnerable – Tom honestly did not think he would ever feel as horrible and self-loathing as he did then.

But as he watched through the tall glass window as his people rush about in hopeful madness, saw newly-orphaned children sobbing into the dirt as they were carried off by the caretakers, the powerful wizard wanted nothing more than to collapse to his knees and beg for their forgiveness. He wished that he could gain a Time-Turner and go back, forfeit his life for theirs – and he would, too, if he were guaranteed the outcome would be even slightly better than what his planning had wrought.

A sharp intake of breath slowly withdrew him from his pensive thoughts, and he pulled himself away from the window just in time to see the dazed cobalt eyes of the young Vida resting atop his bed. The guilt Tom was already inundated with increased tenfold at the sight of the young wizard’s battered body – new scars on top of old, dried blood staining his porcelain skin and the white sheets beneath him. He had healed Aeron’s wounds, fed what he could to the starving magical core, resisted the gnawing teeth that had unconsciously begged for blood, but the boy’s pained whimpers as he did so would forever be a haunt in his already occupied mind.

“You’re awake,” he stated needlessly, but it snapped Aeron’s attention to him instantly. Eyes narrowed as the vampire studied him, and he watched the lithe body tense as he pulled himself into a sitting position.

“Where am I?” He inquired softly, slowly maneuvering the black silk comforter behind him to be around his shoulders. Tom was momentarily struck by the similarities between Aeron and his father – the way the boy looked at him now was far too similar to the way Severus had peered up at him after being rescued from the abuse of his father.

“My room,” he muttered softly. He stayed where he was, back leaning against the window, watching as the other wizard processed the information. “I need to thank you, Master Snape,” he continued, merely cocking an eyebrow as the boy shot him a look.

“Why? I haven’t done anything.”

“On the contrary.” He moved away from the window now, no longer able to take in the sorrow of his people with a calmed façade, and approached the bed, as wary as was the figure on top of it. “Your arrival to Knockturn Alley spun a great many deal of events, events that forced me to retreat long before I would have. You saved several lives today.” A frown replaced his cocked eyebrow as Aeron tensed at the words; he noticed the utter flood of grief that swam across the pale face before it hid from view, frown deepening as his companion remained silent. “I received a message from Andromeda Black not too long ago. You will be pleased to know that your father, though still unconscious, will be just fine.”

The head that had lowered jerked sharply up, and Tom titled his own in acknowledgement. Severus hadn’t told his son of the mortality and immortality of his kind – had not yet explained how difficult it was to kill a Vida. Aeron had not been grieving the loss of the child, but of his father.

“He will be returning shortly, as soon as Dumbledore debriefs him, I imagine,” he added softly. He noticed the slim shoulders shaking slightly, saw the gentle shudder, and for a moment he entertained the idea of comforting the vampire. But Tom held no illusions as to Aeron’s state of mind – he knew Harry Potter still existed in that head somewhere, perhaps now more than before. Instead, he turned back toward the window, the wails having somewhat died down, watching as a slow parade of bodies were lead to the Pique, laid out gently on the rough, white marble. There would be funerals tonight – not as much as there had been, but enough that his people would no longer feel safe in the village. Enough that their anger would grow. Enough that another war was inevitable. Enough that he would not be sleeping tonight.

“Thank you.” He almost didn’t hear the soft voice, the melodic pull of an angel away from his demons. He turned his head only slightly, studying the small form wrapped within his sheets as dark blue eyes stared right back. What was it about this child that demanded he step away from the face of his crimes – ordered him to not look upon the dead who had hoped he would save them? Aeron was not more important than his people – less so, even, for as long as Voldemort had known him as Aeron Snape.

“Just … thank you.”

“You still look troubled,” Voldemort observed dryly, pushing his thoughts aside once more. Surprised, Aeron blinked at him owlishly, his eyes glimmering in the fashion of tearful remnants. “There was no way you could have saved that boy, you know.” ‘I should have.’

“I know that,” came the whispered reply. “I wish to God I could have – I would go back and take his place, even. I’ll never forget that. But, no. It’s … I … I killed Mad-Eye Moody, today.”

Ah. So that was the problem. He had taken his first life. Done in the perfect place at the wrong time.

“I feel torn,” the vampire continued, ignorant of Tom’s musings. His slim fingers picked at the sheet, twisting the black material against his skin in a perfect contrast. “One part of me feels like I did the right thing. He killed – tried to kill my father. And … and he could see who I am – was. He knew I was Harry Potter. If he lived, he would have exposed me for who I was, right?” He didn’t wait for a response. “And then there’s another part of me that feels disgust for his death – horrified that I did it. I had met him – I knew him, and I destroyed him from the inside out. I feel like I’m … like I’m two people. Aeron Snape … and Harry Potter.” He slowly lifted his head once more. “What do I do?”

“About your identity crisis? St. Mungos,” Voldemort deadpanned, carefully hiding how much the confession had disturbed him as he stared blankly at Aeron’s exasperated, annoyed expression. “About the guilt you feel? Nothing. You killed Alastor Moody to avenge a man you thought he murdered, which is respectful in its own right, but it was also a murder of violence. All you can do, is apologize to him, apologize to yourself, and move on.” He paused, glancing out the window once more, tone wistful as he continued. “You do not deserve to forget murders, Master Snape. It will be a burden you carry around for the rest of your life. However, it is that permanent guilt that sets us apart from those like Dumbledore. Remember and embrace it.”

The light outside was growing dimmer – somewhere behind the overcast skies, the sun was setting, leaving in its stead a night of mourning. Already, the Funeral Totems around the Pique were being lit. The funerals would start soon.

“Get some rest, Master Snape,” he commanded softly, spelling the curtains to close over the window as he slowly moved away and toward the door. “I daresay you need it. If you can recall the way, then you may move to your own chambers. If not, you are welcome here. Neither I nor anyone else will disturb you.”

He was given no reply as he excited his room, other than a small, desolate whimper he knew he wasn’t meant to hear.

.T.

Severus' arms jerked with movements beyond his control -- his legs kicked despite his orders not to. Like his mind, his body was in utter shock, contracted in a mixture of ice and flame, unable to comprehend its surroundings because of its paradox state. Desperately, he tried to soothe away the paranoia if only for a moment, so that his mind could grasp a chance to figure out what was going on.

But there were foreign hands on him, caught in a mess of trying to prod and restrain at the same time. He could feel his fangs bearing in response, his back arching in a furious attempt to release his wings and get those hands OFF. Wherever he was, it was NOT where he wanted to be -- there was something else -- someone else -- calling to him.

Aeron!

"What's wrong with him?" A panicked voice cried out as pressure was increased across his arms. "He'll bloody kill himself if he keeps up! Where's the potion?!" His Vida did not register recognition, only danger, and in response he tried to fight away more. He could not sense his son, not near him, and not within close vicinity, either. Had Moody been able to get him after he had felled Severus with that spell? Was his son in a similar state? Had Dumbledore discovered his secret -- did he know Harry Potter was not dead?

"Don't hold him so tightly!" A new voice barked, and his movements instantly stilled at the familiarity. "You're only going to do more damage! Here, just bind his wrists -- Bill, you get his legs. Not too tightly! His bones are in a right enough state!"

Andromeda.

He felt the smooth mouth of a vial pressed gently against his lips, the coolness of the contained liquid too tempting for his aching throat to ignore. Against his best efforts, his mouth opened, and he downed the liquid instantly, recognizing the mint taste for what it was too late.

"He looks like ice," another voice muttered, a little more familiar than the first.

"That happens," Andromeda mumbled back, and then he felt the breeze of a hand upon his cheek. "Careful, Severus," she soothed. "You're going to feel like Hell here in a moment, but I promise you will be able to open your eyes. You've done this before. You're fine." Her hand continued its ministrations, comforting him, keeping him grounded as his body slowly began to regain its sense of normalcy.

The first thing he noticed was that his skin was searing with suppressed heat, burning his flesh viciously in retribution for the containment. He could something heavy on his chest -- in his chest -- crumbling around and pressing against his skin painfully. His ribs, he noted absently. Shards of his ribs trying desperately to escape his chest. He felt as if he was a mess of mangled ruins being slowly torn apart and tossed into an incinerator.

"Andromeda?" His voice cracked as it skittered over the hoarse call, and he bit back a whimper at the fire that ignited in his throat from it. Shuffling followed his plea, muttered voices too low for him to understand, and then the hand returned.

"I'm here. Are you alive enough to open your eyes, perhaps?" He managed a weak scowl at the cheerful tune of her voice, but obeyed her request nonetheless. He winced at the feel of ice pulling at his eyelashes, of the cool powered flakes crumbling off and landing upon his cheeks. It was a relief when dim light and a concerned Andromeda Black met his sight.

"I wasn't dead to begin with," he growled pointedly. His sight was slowly focusing -- he could make out Bill Weasley standing in the background, seemingly torn between seeing if Severus was alright and something on the other side of the room. And then there was ... Black, staring at him in a mixture of disturbed realization and horror. He glowered. "You can let me go."

His wrists were free instantly, and his obsidian eyes darted back to Andromeda pointedly.

"Before you ask." He really didn't need the obvious flicker of her eyes towards Bill. "Aeron is currently at Mors Amor. He was harmed, but treated quickly and efficiently. He sleeps now, though I have been informed that something happened after your ... death ... that will need to be taken care of as soon." He frowned deeper, but the witch remained silent. "We're currently at Grimmuald Place, apart from the room of the other wounded. Sirius brought you here from Knockturn." She paused, and then added quietly. "There were many losses, Severus."

"Too many," Black hissed viciously. The animagus was staring at him with an expression Severus could not quite place -- like a predator stalking its prey for a bit of torture before consumption. Andromeda sighed deeply, a troubled look on her face as she nodded in agreement with her cousin.

"I have to see to Ginny," she told Severus. "You should be able to leave in the morning after Dumbledore speaks with you." An apologetic look there. "Don't do anything stupid, either. I just restored your lungs to working condition -- I don't really think either of us wants to go through that again. Sirius, stay with him."

Severus said nothing as she turned and followed Bill over to a cot in the corner he had not noticed before. He could see the frail girl enveloped within its blankets; the salve that covered the right side of her face. He felt a tinge of jealousy as he watched Bill kneel beside his sister and hold her hand in comfort whilst Andromeda tended to the wound, an image of his own son, injured, flashing through his mind.

"Why did you save me?" He asked Black, not looking away from the tender scene, and therefore missing the other wizard's shrug.

"My best friend was in love with you, probably more than he had ever been in love with anyone other than Ha-Aeron. If he could love you, than there most be something worth saving in you." Severus turned now, meeting the cool blue stare head-on. "You're the only father Aeron has ever known, Snape. And I will damned if anyone, including Dumbledore, takes anything else away from him." Slowly, cautiously, Severus nodded, giving a small glare to warn off anything prankish as his eyes began to flutter close. He almost growled at the next sentence.

"Besides, now you owe me a life-debt."

.T.

"My Lord."

Lucius did not have to glance up to know who was suddenly kneeling before him. A small, graceful smile formed on his face as he finished signing his pseudonym to his new doctrine, shifting from his seat in one beautiful movement to stand before his favorite.

"Rise," he commanded gently, beaming warmly as the lively brown eyes locked with his own. The headache that seemed to constantly plague him always faded at the sight of the youth who was always eager to see him. "He is here, then?"

"Yes, Sire." The hooded head bobbed. "He waits in the Ora, as he says was arranged. He seems a little ... disconcerted. Perhaps the events at Knockturn? I ... I noticed the casualty count was rather high, Sire."

"An unfortunate cost of war," Lucius admitted sadly, temporarily resting a hand on the young man's shoulder before moving off toward the window. Twilight raced across the sky, chasing the sun away with the moon on its own heels. In the darker distance, he could see violent flashes of lightning he knew were accompanied by rain, as though the Earth itself was mourning the blood that had been spilt on this day. The Funeral would be beginning soon. "Thank Merlin it was not a battle that required our own presence. Let one side destroy the other, remember? So that we may fight that victor and declare our own glory." He paused, allowing his eyes to drift towards his favorite's reflection. "You do still want the new world, of course?"

"Of course I do, Sire!" The cry was strangled with disbelief and desperation. "I have never wanted anything more! It's just ... I just wish that there was a way to acquire it without so much bloodshed."

Lucius' head tilt in understanding, and he turned to face the boy once more. Placing his hands upon both shoulders, he gave them a gentle squeeze as the head lowered in submission. "As do I. But some loss is necessary. However, I promise you that in our new society, when it is finally accomplished, there will be no blood on our streets. Look at me." The head raised, and they locked gazes once more. "I promise, and you trust me, don't you?"

"I do." The Malfoy patriarch nodded his head.

"Good. Now, return to your home and rest. We have much coming up that will require your aid. I will go speak with our friend and discover what has him so troubled." He felt pride swell in his chest as a smile found its way to his follower's face, though it slowly dimmed as the boy bowed and then backed out to platform that would take him, undetected, to his home. Alone in his study once more, the headache was beginning its violent return. When he heard his study door open a minute later, the pain only increased to the point of irritation.

"I thought we agreed to meet in the Ora," he growled lowly, massaging the bridge of his nose as he turned to meet the figure.

"I did not come here for a casual meeting!" The other wizard snapped viciously. "I should not even be here now! My absence will be noticed and questioned." Lucius sneered, returning to his window as another lightning bolt struck the ground, closer this time, and more violent than its brothers.

"Then by all means, feel free to leave. I have other business to attend to." He could see the figure shuffle in the reflection, could feel the anger growing off of the man, and for some reason, it made the situation that much more entertaining.

"I gave you," the figure began calmly. "A mixture that would turn your son into a creature, which I know you well enough to know you have already used." Lucius said nothing. "At the battle in Knockturn, a vampire that should not exist appeared in between the two sides fighting and killed a man without a wand. Now, you told me that you were going to remain neutral in this war."

"That there is a new Vida out there is a very interesting twist to this little game, is it not?" Lucius inquired lightly, though inside his mind was churning at the new information. "I released Draco earlier today due to circumstances beyond my control. However, I guarantee you that your new quarry could not have been my son. Not unless this vampire was a monster with three skeletal wings of bloody veins and rather worse for wear." There was accusation in his tone, for though he had known the consequences of turning Draco would be dire, he had not known that it would so drastically effect the transformation.

The other wizard, however, ignored the implication, instead standing quietly off to the side, deep in thought. The sky had gone completely dark now, and Lucius knew that, somewhere quite far away and very well hidden, a fire would be raging on a PIQUE, rain regardless.

"I see." Lucius looked toward the owner of the voice, wincing as his mind sharply protested the action with a sharp twinge, and watched as the man grabbed a portkey around his neck and disappeared.

His headache grew even fiercer.

.T.

He stared up at the intricate ceiling above him, his breathing light, his cobalt eyes tormented with the burning of tears at their bases. His body shivered with a chill that did not exist outside of his own bones, and though there was no longer a wound to be found upon his pale form, whimpers of pain would endlessly escape his throat. His body felt like ice -- as though little crystals of frozen water had attached themselves to his insides and were trying the best to freeze his very blood. The thick comforter wrapped around him did nothing to sustain any heat.

Voldemort had told him to rest, but Aeron was unable to find the mercy anywhere to do so.

He was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, having pulled the comforter with him, swinging his feet violently despite the pain the movements caused. A quick glance from the ceiling to the window showed the last rays of sunlight disappearing to the other end of the Earth, and he found it disgustingly ironic that it had only been hours since the massacre at Knockturn Alley. Only hours since he had believed his father to be dead.

He wasn't quite sure what to make of Voldemort's advice on how to handle his murder of Mad-Eye Moody. He wasn't quite sure to what to make of anything, really. Even more disgusting than the fact that this day was not yet over was that he had only been Aeron Snape for two weeks. So much had happened during that short time frame -- so much had been given and taken away, that his body literally spasmed at the mere thought of it. He was used to his life being nothing but a turmoiled mess, but this was pushing his limits. One moment he was dead, the next not quite so, Snape was his father instead of his most hated Potions Professor, and Voldemort was suddenly the good guy whilst Dumbledore was bad. Now to have his father not be dead even though Aeron had seen him felled by a violent, death-ridden spell ... was too much.

Merlin. He could not stay here.

He got to his feet with great difficulty, faltering as his knees trembled under the weight, allowing the comforter to slide to the floor as he did. He made out the outline of the door against the right wall, the small line of light beneath it a sure sign of exit.

(If you plan on going out, perhapsss it would be besssst if you put on a robe.)

Aeron froze at the hiss, the familiarity of the feminine voice sending a pained shudder down his spine as he slowly turned his head toward the opposite wall. And though he expected the sight that greeted him, he still could not help but flinch at the golden eyes and elongated body of the giant serpent.

(Nagini,) he greeted uncertainly. Voldemort's familiar merely eyed him, much in the same way he had seen her eye the Riddle Manor's Muggle groundskeeper before she had devoured him. And then her massive scaled head turned, pointing in the direction of a desk he had no need to notice before.

(There issss a robe on that chair. It issss Tom'ssss favorite) she informed, turning back to him and blinking lazily. (I have heard talking. You will be easssily recognized after todayssss attack without a robe. Wear it when you go outsssside.)

(I'm not going outsssside,) he responded, but closed his mouth quickly at her glare. When he made no move to obey her, however, she released an aggravated hiss, uncoiling enough for her tail to reach the chair. He watched uneasily as she lifted the brown garment onto the tip, and flinched when she flung it at him.

(If you sssstill feel guilt, then you need to. Now wear that.) And without another word, and certainly leaving no room for further argument, she retreated back into her gathered ball, watching him with steely eyes that begged him to disobey.

(Fine.)

Covered, Aeron was surprised to see that the door led to a staircase of which the manor's exit was at the end. It seemed dangerous for a leader's door to be so close to the outside. However, he stuck his head out cautiously, a little uneased by the lack of people wandering the corridors. He was not aware of the actual losses Mors Amor had suffered -- he knew many were still alive. But Merelda's obvious absence brought a small twinge to his heart, and he froze at the doorway, suddenly aware of what kind of horrors he may face on the outside.

(Go!) Nagini hissed, and startled, Aeron obeyed.

His knees and calves protested the stairs instantly, pulling and shuddering and threatening to break with each step that he took. His body, oddly comforted by the cloak, stiffened as he neared the elegant door, sensing something that made him want to bulk and return to Voldemort's room. But his mind, silent for the first time since his arrival, urged him forward, compelled by the force that shook his body. Hesitating minutely, he pressed his hand against the handle, and pushed down.

The first thing he noted was the cold -- it blew against the cloak in a merciless attack, forcing the door to close behind him and assaulting whatever exposed skin it could find. Lightning struck ground close by, one bolt after another, as though screaming rage at life's cruelty. The outside was brown, orange, and black, stale with the scent of blood and death and mourning. The sensation made him feel as though he were suffocating, the ice within his body expanding and spreading. He could feel his wings pressing against the skin of his back, seeking to come out and escape the horrid place and find somewhere more ... alive.

"Who are you?"

The voice was small and high, startling the tortured vampire from his thoughts. Glancing down, he saw a small body sitting on the platform of the door he had just came from, staring up at him with wide, innocent amethyst eyes. The child was a little boy, who was shivering just as violently, if not more so, than he was.

"Aeron," he answered automatically. Stunned by the child's presence, he ignored his pain and knelt before him. "What are you doing out here all by yourself?" He asked softly, and the little boy shrugged with a frown.

"Mrs. Merriweather -- that's my neighbor -- was saying that everyone needed to go to the PIQUE for the Funeral, so I followed her. But then I saw this." Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a small, round orange stone with demented sides, showing it to Aeron proudly. "It was so pretty, and I wanted to get it for Mama. Mama likes pretty things. But then I lost Mrs. Merriweather," he added softly, and Aeron's heart slumped at the sight of tears in the child's eyes.

"Well, how about we go find her, eh?" He asked softly, nudging the boy's chin with his fingers, lightened by the small smile that formed on the little face. "Where's your Mum, then?" He added as the boy stood, not saying anything as a small hand reached up to clasp his.

"Mama went to Trade Day. She said I couldn't go this year, 'cause I'm only five. But next year I'll be all grown up. She said I could go then." Trade Day. Aeron froze, putting the pieces together. Trade Day, the attack, a funeral. "What's wrong, Mr. Aeron?" The little boy asked, tugging on his hand. He noted the boy shivering again, and without a word he removed his cloak and draped it around the slim shoulders, clutching the hand within his tighter.

"Nothing. Come on," he urged gently. Life was unfair, he thought as the boy pulled him along. Somehow, he was sure that this little boy's mother was no longer living.

He felt it before they saw it -- the Pique, a stone-covered pentagon in which a long, large lit torch stood looming in the center. All around, people were crying and murmuring -- he could FEEL mixtures of hope and despair within the crowded mess. From a little ways off, accompanied by low, spiritual chanting, a long parade of cloaked, maskless Death Eaters had formed a parade, each with an enchanted, open coffin floating between them and the person before. Small balls of light hung over their pathway, guiding them forward, through the mourners and toward their final destination.

"Evan!" A strong voice wailed, and Aeron felt the little hand within his clench tightly as the little boy -- Evan -- giggled.

"That's Mrs. Merriweather. I should go. Maybe Mama's with her." He pulled his hand loose and began to dash toward a frantic looking old woman. "Bye, Aeron!" He called out, and the vampire could only watch him go.

And he stood there, amidst a sea of tears and death and depression. His wings continued to ache, he could feel his eyes flashing, but yet he maintained his ground as the procession of the dead continued forward.

"You have a horrible knack for not doing as you are told, Mr. Snape." He did not have to turn around to know it was Voldemort whose hand now rested on his elbow. "You could have at least put on a shirt before disobeying me." The words were light, but they lacked the passion that accompanied jokes. He knew the wizard's eyes were not on him, but on the approaching parade.

"Nagini told me to come out here -- gave me your cloak. I gave it to a kid. I ... I think his mother was killed today." Aeron paused, swallowing. "He doesn't know. He shouldn't have to know. He's only five." The hand on his arm tightened.

"You should go back inside, and ignore the snake," Voldemort whispered. The hand moved, and the next moment Aeron felt the sensation of another cloak enveloping his body. "Vidas, as life-giving creatures, do not handle death well."

"I get that," Aeron responded, pulling the dark material closer. "But I should be here. I ... feel as though I need to be here." The hand returned, this time just to give a squeeze of understanding, and he felt the wizard lord shift.

"Then pull up the hood, at least. There is talk of the golden-winged angel who killed an enemy. I have to give prayers to the dead before their burning, and I cannot do that and worry about you at the same time." And with that, he walked away, leaving Aeron to pull up the hood and watch the man work through the crowd that instantly parted for him. He sucked in a breath as the bodies grew closer, and forced himself to watch.

Life was unfair.

.T.

They walked at a brisk pace, the early morning mist a hindrance to their eyes as they pushed forward. He could see her billowing cloak before him, and it was only years of practice that kept him from reaching out to grasp it -- to hold onto it so that he would not lose her, and she in turn would not lose him. It was a childish desire, he knew, but it didn't stop his desire. She would only react harshly, of course, scolding him for his immaturity, which would only have the opposite effect of what he currently wanted.

Sometimes Neville wondered if his grandmother remembered that she was all he had left in this world.

They were approaching a set of large Muggle houses, secured tightly within a very Muggle area. He had dressed appropriately -- a white shirt under a black blazer, black trainers and black dress pants. His grandmother ... wore her usual scruffy brown jacket over a Witch-styled dress. At least she had forgone vulture hat this time -- the poor milkman would probably have had a breakdown of some sort.

"Come along, Neville, come along!" She snapped at him, surging ahead. "Dumbledore is a busy man, you know. He doesn't have all day and because of that neither do we."

Neville merely sighed.

The attack on Knockturn Alley yesterday afternoon had changed something about Amanda Longbottom. Before, she had been adamant about Neville having no part in the war, and then if he had to be in it, then it would a miniscule role and there had to be no chance of him being harmed. She had encouraged, and even applauded, his decision to refuse Dumbledore's offer to be the savior, though she had not been so outright about it. But after the death tolls started coming in from yesterday's attack, she had grown quiet, her face deadly even. And then without a word, she had gathered a few personal belongings, ordered her grandson to get ready, and hailed the Knight Bus.

His grandmother knew that he had chosen to remain neutral in the war that had claimed the life of Harry Potter, and yet now here they were, nearing Grimmuald Place -- the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Here was his grandmother, planning on convincing Dumbledore to take Neville in and train him as the savior the world so obviously needed.

"I know it's not what you want," she had whispered to him on the Bus whilst glaring at the curious Stan Shunpike. "But this world needed Harry Potter. And now that he's gone ... well, Neville, dear. Ron Weasley is a wonderful boy and all, but there is something you have that makes you closer to Harry's power than that child could ever gain."

She wouldn't tell him what it was, however.

"Here, here!" The sudden crow made Neville pause, and he peered up at the houses his grandmother was pointing at. Two tall structures, side by side. Number eleven ... and number thirteen. He wondered briefly how Muggles never found that odd. "Neville!" She snapped him back to attention. "Think, boy! Get inside before we're spotted!"

‘Number 12, Grimmuald Place.'

The entrance instantly appeared before them, gothic in its appearance and completely out of place in the Muggle area. His grandmother darted inside, commanding him to follow. He did so at a much slower pace, a feeling of dread burning up in his stomach as he slid through the opened door, wincing as it closed behind him.

"Neville. I was just telling your grandmother how wonderful it was to see you." He smiled grimly at the sight of a tired Remus Lupin.

"Professor," he acknowledged, and his grandmother huffed.

"Enough chit-chat. Lupin, take me to Dumbledore or I will find him myself." Neville frowned as Remus simply nodded in acquiescence, watching as the werewolf led his grandmother down the hall and turned. He was left standing in the foyer, under the judging eyes of the portrait of Mrs. Black, who was oddly quiet, in a mansion that felt more dead than alive.

He wondered how many of the Order members were still upstairs, wounded or worse. His grandmother had informed him that the Order could not be taken to St. Mungos because it would not be safe enough for them so soon after a battle -- Neville would have demanded they go, if he were the Order's head. He could not imagine the horrors they had gone through here, with a limited medical team and supplies.

"Neville?" His head shot up at Hermione's familiar voice, eyes widening at the sight of her small form at the top of the stairs. He simply stared as she came down, not noticing the pitying look the portraits gave her as he observed her state. She was clothed in light pink robes, obviously borrowed as he knew she didn't like the color -- her face was pale, her hair in even more disarray than normal. Her honey eyes, always bright with intelligence and some sort of joy, were slightly dulled and more aged than they had been just a few days ago.

The blood stains on her robes did not escape his attention, either.

"Hermione," he breathed as she neared, finally moving up to greet her. He stopped just short. "What happened to you? Were you injured?" She blinked at him rapidly, comprehending his words, before giving him a small, exhausted smile.

"No, I'm fine.” She seemed slightly out of it. "I've been up with Aurors all night, helping with the wounded --." Neville's head jerked sharply.

"What? They made you help? You shouldn't have even been in there!" He saw her hands wringing together, dread filling him as he noticed the red tinge stuck there. The dried blood would fade with time, he knew, but he also knew that when Hermione regained herself, she would never forget that blood had been on her hands. Never.

"We needed help, Neville," she explained tiredly, glancing down. "The attack was brutal ... so many died ..." She trailed off, remembering some phantom he couldn't even guess at. He saw her lower lip tremble, saw that she was trying to hold her despair in. All he wanted was to hug his friend, to just erase everything that had happened in the past two weeks. Go back and stop this mess and have Harry back and Hermione untainted and Ron still innocent.

"Where's Ron?" He demanded softly, but the brunette could only shrug.

"I haven't seen him since the night before yesterday. His parents say he's ... training." She looked up then, catching his eyes and asking for answers he didn't have. What had they done to deserve this? They were children who had done nothing but laughed and enjoyed life, being asked to fight in a war started by people they barely even knew. He opened his mouth, though whether it was to comfort her or ask her to come away from this nightmare with him, he didn't know. At that moment, his grandmother came stomping down the hall, looking even more furious than ever, Remus following somberly a few steps back.

"We're leaving, Neville," she growled, turning her eyes to the older wizard at the last second. "And you. Tell that man to train him up right, because I won't ever make my offer again." And with that, she was out the door, glaring at him to do the same. Sharing a final look with Hermione, he obeyed, facing a chill outside that was warmer than the death of the house.

A glance over his shoulder before the door shut saw Remus wrapping an arm around Hermione's shoulders and leading her away from the stairs.

.T.

Life was filled with injustices as much as it was filled with careful wonders. Severus had awoken that morning to find his body completely free of all ice, his bones healed and solid once more, and not one shuddering ache to accompany one step, just as he had expected. There were just as many severe punishments backed by law for harming Vidas as there were for harming unicorns, and just as many compensations to that Vida itself to make up for damage done. He took great pleasure, no matter how wrong it was, in knowing that Mad-Eye Moody was suffering ten times the pain that he had inflicted on Severus right now. Yet he also wished, as he slowly made his was down the dark corridor of Grimmuald Place's left wing, that he could trade places with the scarred, older wizard at the moment. No amount of pain could ever exceed the torture that was Albus Dumbledore.

All Severus wanted to do was go home. Go to Mors Amor, take stock of the damage, help out with what he could and what he was needed to do, and then just hold his son. He had no doubts that Tom had taken care of Aeron, and that the teen was just fine by now, if not still a little shaken. But Severus felt something strong urging him to be with his child, telling him that he was needed.

And once again, he was putting it off for Dumbledore. Putting it off for a man he had nothing to say to but the average lie. 'I had to tell him. You called me right before the attack! There was nothing I could have done to warn you that he knew without compromising my position as spy. It was an obvious excuse, and if it were true, it would have been even truer. Dumbledore may have been an insane murderer, but he was not stupid enough to need these answers told to him.

Which was why Severus was suspicious about this debriefing.

"Come in, please, Severus." The Headmaster's voice called out before he had the opportunity to knock on the door he had stopped in front of and make his arrival known. Frowning, the Potions Master turned the handle and entered the room that had once been Black's father's study, obsidian eyes landing on and narrowing at the ancient wizard seated at the large rosewood desk. "Have a seat, if you would. I'm afraid I have no lemon drops with me. I was not expecting to have to stay here." Severus scoffed at the implication, waving his hand in dismissal of the offered seat.

"I am still sore, Albus," he said in his trademark glowing soft growl. "Forgive me. But it would not have been a problem if you could convince the Order to stop trying to KILL me." A white eyebrow cocked at the words as the vampire leaned back against the wall, sneering at the gathered portraits who were staring at him.

"My apologies, Severus. But you know that we have to keep up appearances around Voldemort. If he saw that I never tried to kill you, he may suspect you. And I can't have that, my dear boy." Severus' turned his sneer on Dumbledore at the title. Merlin, how he loathed it.

"And how is Moody doing today?" He asked lowly, making sure to put an ounce of glee into his voice as he forced his Occlumency walls higher. "You of all people should know how horrible the after effects of trying to kill a Vida are." He smirked slightly as the twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes disappeared. It was always thrilling to see the man outside of his facade.

"I am afraid Alastor will never be able to tell you if he suffered or not, Severus. He was killed very shortly after trying to kill you."

"Pity."

"By another Vida."

The wizard froze at the words, barely managing to keep his shields up as he took in the meaning. There was only one other Vida vampire in existence, only one other who been at Knockturn Alley during the attack. His blood felt as though it were freezing all over again as an image of Aeron, rawly transformed, appeared in his mind.

Merlin no.

"As far as I knew, Severus, you were the only Vida in existence. Now, I know that there are certain ways to transform someone into one of these ... creatures, but I also know that such transformations deform that specimen. And this vampire was exquisite, flawless from his wings to the way he destroyed Alastor from his very core out." Severus flinched. "Do you know who this vampire is, Severus?" Dumbledore's voice was soft now, gentle and coaxing. He could feel a harsh pressure on his mind, a link searching for information on his son. Steel like, he directed it toward fresher images of Aeron as AERON, hiding away the faces of James and Harry Potter. "Severus?"

"I know him, Albus," he admitted. "Though only just recently. Within the past two months. His name is Aeron," he allowed even further, valiantly keeping the desperation from his voice. "He's sixteen. Voldemort just recently introduced us." Dumbledore had seemed to still, taking in this information, only moving his head enough to nod in encouragement to continue. "Sixteen years ago as of last week, Voldemort ordered me to join with one of his elite female Death Eaters in hopes that she would become pregnant and produce another Vida he had complete control over. I did not know that the joining was a success, Albus, or I would have told you. He is the son of Bellatrix Lestrange ... and myself." Severus drifted off, lowering his head in humbled shock that was not exactly faux. How could this be happening? For all his spying and well-kept secrets, how had Aeron been so easily uncovered?

"I see," Dumbledore said softly after a moment. "It is a shame that you did not come to me with this information when you discovered it. This is most troublesome." But for some reason, the man seemed far from concerned. "Then again, sixteen is a very young age. It is possible that he has not been completely swayed to Voldemort's side, a slim chance, but possible." He eyed Severus critically. "Bring him to me, Severus, before the start of term. Perhaps, if all works out well, we will have a fighting advantage, and your ... son could stay at Hogwarts with you. As a student, of course."

It was all becoming unraveled. Everything he had hoped to achieve, the future he had been slowly planning for Aeron. He opened his mouth to respond, trying to think of something to say, and instead grasped his forearm with a fake noise of distress. Instantly, Dumbledore went back to being concerned.

"Go ahead, Severus," he commanded gently. "We will speak more on this later. Go."

And Severus slowly left the room without further urging, before fleeing down the halls to Andromeda and his portkey.

.T.

She groaned as a hand vigorously shook her shoulder, trying to move away from it only to whimper as pain erupted from her left side. The hand instantly withdrew at her distress, replaced quickly by an equally desperate voice.

"Ginny. Ginny. I know you're tired, darling, but you have to wake up right now. We have to go." Another groan as she tried to open her eyes. Why did her head hurt so badly?

"Bill?" She croaked out, barely managing to make out the shape of his body in the blur of colors. Where was she? What was going on?

"I'm here, honey," his voice soothed, and she felt his hand smooth the hair away from her head before it was pulled back.

"You're going to have to carry her, Bill," another voice whispered, one she didn't recognize. "You have to leave quickly. No one knows you're here, but if he sees you--."

"I know." Arms slipped under her, lifting her into the air. With a cry she buried her spinning head into her brother's shoulder, clinging to him as his arms tightened around her.

"Return to your flat, wait for a few hours, and then write to your parents to tell them you're taking Ginny out of the country for the remainder of the summer vacation. Blame it on grief or stress from the war or whatever, they'll be fine with it. They trust you with her and they're distracted anyway. He will come for you tomorrow morning. Be ready, have her ready, and don't make a scene. The last thing we need is for someone to find Mors Amor NOW."

"I understand." The body holding her paused in its movements, tense with uncertainty. "Tell Remus ... Just tell him I'll talk to him later, okay? And thank you, Andromeda."

"Go."

Once again, Ginny felt herself floating through the air in her brother's arms, moving faster than was comfortable for her. But she wasn't really paying attention to her comfort. But the sensation was familiar, somehow. Familiar enough that she opened her eyes, expecting to see red orbs looking down at her, only to see Bill instead.

"Where's the angel?" She slurred, trying hard to keep her eyes open as they slipped into a darkened room. Bill gazed down at her in concern.

"The what?"

"The angel," Ginny repeated. Why was everything so bloody foggy? Where was ... where was ...

"Draco," she murmured, eyes drifting shut. She heard Bill say something softly, but was unable to make it would as they began spinning away, her mind going black once more.

.T.

Dawn had broken to reveal a somber setting on his land -- a freshly used PIQUE still smoldering under the piles of bones that lay at its base. He had not slept last night, with the wails of children who had discovered dead parents still haunting his steps. Instead, his night had been filled with seeing to those children, making sure that they had felt safe enough to rest in the instantly renovated orphanage. He desperately wished that he could have brought them all into the manor and cared for each individually, but he knew from past experience such an arrangement would never work.

Only after they were all asleep did he return to his home, only to discover Aeron once again asleep on his bed. He hadn't the heart to wake the sleeping vampire, watching as Aeron's small frame had buried itself deeper and deeper in the black sheets and comforter. He had looked so serene that Tom could almost forget the nightmares of the day, so innocent that he wanted to take the boy into his arms and simply hold him. Protect him. But he had held off, instead slowly sneaking from the room and shutting the door to allow the small creature the rest he obviously needed.

Now, however, he waited patiently in the Acceptance Chamber, seated in his constructed and much loathed bronze throne, watching Aeron fidget nervously just a few feet away. The frail body was still shivering, but there was an energy in the young vampire Tom had never seen before. He was waiting for the return of his father, and had been for the past hour since Andromeda had informed them of Severus' awakening.

(He ssseemsss lonely for a wizzzard). Crimson eyes lowered to the sight of Nagini, eyeing her with the same amount of exasperation he had last night when scolding her for letting Aeron out. And she looked just as unfazed as she had then. (Where isss hisss familiar?)

(Dead) Tom informed bluntly, sighing as the giant serpent jerked back in shock. (Killed by his former guardiansss, from what Ssseverusss told me). Golden eyes flashed murderously.

(We ssshould kill them) Nagini snarled, but Tom just shrugged. Aeron had risen now, pacing the floor with perfectly fit legs. He remembered the limp from last night, and was pleased the Vida healing properties had cured it.

(Hisss father already did.) 

(Good). Nagini was watching the teen now, slit pupils moving back and forth in an overly-protective manner. Where was Severus? (You ssshould get him a new familiar. It is unwissse to leave a young wizzzard, vampire or not, alone without one for too long).

(Perhapsss). 

Before his own familiar could continue her argument, a bright flash of light appeared in the center of the room just in front of Aeron's body. Tom watched closely as Severus emerged from its center just to be grasped desperately by his son. He frowned as he saw Severus flinch and stiffen at the contact, tensing as the obsidian eyes went temporarily pitch black and met his own.

Something had gone wrong.

To be continued


End file.
